


The Dare

by cto10121



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo et Juliette - Presgurvic
Genre: AU, F/M, Gen, Modern, Original French Cast, alternative universe, humor/comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:15:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27336274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cto10121/pseuds/cto10121
Summary: Crash the Capulet ball, they said. Woo Juliette Capulet, they said. It’d be fun, they said. AU.
Relationships: Juliet Capulet/Romeo Montague, Juliet Capulet/Tybalt (unrequited), Tybalt/OC
Kudos: 5





	1. The Dare

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually an oldie of mine, but thanks to my perfectionist tendencies, I sat on it for the longest. But as I felt the fanfic itch and I’m still fond of this one, I might as well post it up. I actually based it on a French fanfic with the same premise, though that one went into a much darker place, imperfectly executed. My take turned out to be much more comic than my usual; your mileage may vary. As usual, I use the original French cast/universe with some Shakespeare nuggets sprinkled in. As a lark, I’ll be posting a chapter every two days; otherwise, it’s done. Anyway, give kudos, comment, etc.

“Come on. Are you really going to wallow like this the whole evening?”

“I’m not wallowing. I don’t wallow.”

“Then what’s this? Your version of jumping for joy?”

Romeo sighed inwardly, letting himself fall back on the bed coverlet. Lord knew that he loved his mates, but sometimes they were like a dog with a bone—once they found issue, they would absolutely hound it to death.

“I just don’t feel like attending this ball. What’d be the point?”

“What’d be the _point_?” Mercutio, who was making good use of his vanity mirror, rounded on him. “Now I know you’re out of it. Since when have you passed up a chance to pull a fast one on Capulets?”

“Since now” was his surly reply. “It’s one thing to prank the likes of Sampson and Gregory. It’s another to gatecrash a Capulet ball, surrounded by the lot.”

“As dangerous pranks goes, gatecrashing is the least of them,” pointed out Benvolio, flourishing his mask and heading toward his water closet. “It’s a masked ball, ‘Meo. We’ll dance a round or two and be in and out so fast they wouldn’t even know we were there.”

“Wouldn’t that defeat the purpose of the prank? Or is the punchline just sharing air space with Capulets?”

“What is your beef?” Mercutio, hands on waist, eyed him shrewdly. “’Volio told me you were out of it, but he didn’t mention you turned into such a killjoy.”

“I can _hear_ you, Mercutio,” said Benvolio’s muffled voice on the other side of the bathroom, which Mercutio ignored.

“Is it Rose?” Mercutio leaned in, almost conspiratorially. “You know, she’s always had a thing for you. And you two have been cozy lately.”

“I’m aware.” Vividly, in fact, as Rose was not at all the subtle type. But ambiguous relationship with Rose aside… “That’s not it.”

“Then what?”

This time Romeo did sigh. In truth, he did not know how to define this heaviness, this restlessness within him. It was something kin to weariness, an ennui. A vague dissatisfaction. And it all have to do with—

“I think I’m going to take a break,” he finally said. “From all the drama, at least.”

The evening birdsong near the window could be heard, that was how total the silence was.

“‘Volio,” said Mercutio, calmly enough. “Could you come here? Right now?”

But Benvolio had heard and came out, face flushed. “What the fuck, Romeo?”

“I knew you’d be understanding,” he deadpanned as both exchanged significant glances.

“Are you sick? Is it a bug?” Benvolio even tried to feel his forehead, the tosser.

“I’m not sick!”

“Then you’re mad,” said Mercutio decisively. “Er, than usual, that is. But definitely mad.”

“I said I’m taking a break, not taking vows. Or, hell, batting for the other team.”

“Frankly, I’d be less worried if you were,” said Benvolio, earnest. “It isn’t like you to give up dating. You’re Romeo, for Chrissakes.”

“Yeah, well, _Romeo_ has limits,” he said, with a dismissive wave. “I’ve been with most of the women in town. Frankly, it’s getting old. Capulets, Montagues—it’s all the same.”

“There must be at least one or two you missed,” said Benvolio fairly. “Most of the Capulets, for one.”

“For good reason. Feud, remember?”

“Sex is different, you know that. Not that an actual couple would ever work. Not in a million years.”

Mercutio leaned back, dark eyes containing the glitter of an idea. “What about that Juliette Capulet? You know her, right?”

The name made him look up. “Capulet’s daughter? No, I don’t. Why on earth would I go with her?”

“I don’t know,” he said cryptically. “Why would my fop of a cousin go with her?”

He and Benvolio stared at him blankly until he explained. Apparently, Mercutio’s cousin Paris was on the courting prowl for Capulet’s heir at this evening’s ball. He had already asked for her hand in marriage, of all things, but Capulet had demurred, suggesting more time as a formality.

“He wants a piece of the Capel pie,” said Mercutio, a roll of his eyes showing what he thought of that ambition. “Uncle doesn’t exactly like it, thinks it’d disturb the power balance, but as Valentine is not likely to marry and I’m practically a Montague…it evens out in the end.”

“How on earth did you find this out?” asked Benvolio eagerly, and even he paid attention; this was a scoop indeed.

“Bumped into him on the way here, got him in the right humor, the smug bastard. So you see, we can’t miss this. Can you imagine, Paris trying to woo this sheltered Capulet brat? It’s a riot just thinking it. Too perfect.”

In later time, looking back on this fateful converse, Romeo would be soured to remember that it was Benvolio who first suggested it, not Mercutio.

“Hey—‘Meo could woo her, easy. We’ll even make a dare out of it.”

“Now _that’s_ what I’m talking about,” said Mercutio approvingly. “Good one, Benvolio.”

Romeo got to his feet in one quick gesture, stretching. “Yeah, if I were suicidal. Not funny, ‘Volio.”

He blinked. “Er, no, really. Why not?”

“First of all, she’s a Capulet. Second of all, I’ll be wooing her surrounded by her knife-happy kinsmen. Third of all—how old is she? Isn’t she thirteen or something?”

“Sixteen, actually.” Mercutio lit a cigarette, flicking open a lighter. “I saw her once, at one of those tedious dinners Uncle sometimes forces me to attend, about a year ago.”

“Really? How was she then?”

Mercutio exhaled a cloud of smoke. The expression in his usually sparkling eyes a strange mix of earnest and amused. “Two words. Jail. Bait.”

Benvolio laughed. He, Romeo, almost choked on air. “Bull. No sixteen-year-old is that good.”

“Well, she’s not my type, obviously—oh, shut up, you know what I mean—but I have eyes, and she is _it_. She must be even prettier now, it’s been awhile.”

“But she must be of age if Paris is wooing her.”

“Barely. Capulet has kept her under close wraps, for obvious reasons. No idea how my cousin got to know her, but there you have it.” He threw a mask to Romeo, who caught it. “She’d be a cinch for you, ‘Meo. She looks more your type, anyway. Cupcake-sweet. A real buttercup.”

“The respectable heir of Capulet, a cinch? Now who’s the mad one?”

“It’s always the virginal ones who fall the easiest, you know that. Just do that Romeo-voodoo that you do and she’ll be like a bird in your hand tonight.”

“…My what?”

“You know.” Mercutio snapped his fingers impatiently, as if trying to spark the right words. “That weird moth-to-flame effect you have on any skirt who so much as looks at you within a five mile-radius.”

Benvolio laughed and even he had to smile at Mercutio’s verbal ingenuity, albeit reluctantly. It hadn’t always been like this, women melting like wax at the mere sight of him. His father gone, and with an overprotective lady mother and her female retinue, he had grown up gawky, awkward, more used to women’s company than usual. How, at sixteen, his desirability factor shot off the charts was one of puberty’s finest mysteries.

“Isn’t she already being wooed by Paris?” he finally asked. “Wouldn’t that be a problem?”

“Well, if it is, what’s a dare without a bit of a challenge? C’mon, ‘Meo.”

“Think of this as a way of getting out of that rut of yours,” said Benvolio, bumping shoulders with him. “Besides, it’s a kiss, little more.”

“A kiss? I thought I had to sleep with her.”

“All right, we’ll work out the fine details later. First tell: Will you take up the dare or no? It’d be the perfect trick against the Capulets,” he wheedled after Romeo remained silent.

“I don’t care to anger a bunch of Capulets, ‘Cutio,” he said at last with a sigh. “If I must…what do I get in return?”

He was gratified to see their faces pull into slight grimaces.

“Er, the satisfaction of proving you’re a man and not a cowardly pussy?” Benvolio’s suggestion.

“Pulling one over my stupid cousin and Tybalt?” Mercutio’s.

“Getting hot and heavy with a sixteen-year-old?” Benvolio’s, of all people!

“Free food?” said Mercutio after a moment.

In the end, he agreed and no, it was not the promise of free food that made him tie his long dark hair, finally don his evening wear, and join his friends in their masked carousing, though it helped. He had little interest beyond idle curiosity in this Juliette Capulet, whom he had yet to see, but it wouldn’t hurt to check her out, double entendre intended. If the dare was too risky or inconvenient, the girl too green or uninteresting, he’d simply bow out. He was a free agent, after all, and besides, he knew better than to take his friends’ ribbing seriously, all in good fun.

Still. He had to wonder why he agreed. Maybe he did like the small frisson the prospect of feasting with the enemy, undetected, gave him. Maybe he did it to placate Mercutio and Benvolio, obviously concerned for him beneath their callous boy-talk, to show the brief resurgence of the Romeo they knew and (fondly) mocked. Maybe he was vain about his wooing prowess after all, and wanted to see how he fared with a Capulet.

Either way, it’d prove, without a doubt, the stupidest decision he’d ever make in his life.

* * *

She did an experimental twirl, a short one, liking the way the soft gossamer hem rose and fell about her calves. She looked up expectantly at her cousin before frowning. “Do I look not well?”

For when she had shown her ball dress to the Nurse and the Mute, they had exclaimed in wonder, although the former disapproved of the tightness of the décolletage, having miscalculated the taille; she had to argue against the Nurse’s loosening it. Her mother had been occupied with her own gown, busy with last minute arrangements, but even she had popped in, and warmly given her approval. She liked the feeling it gave her, too, the lightness of the fabric on her skin. But Tybalt’s reaction puzzled her. He had frozen, his expression blank. He looked quickly down and away, shoulders stiff. But at her query, he shook his head, his soft look returning.

“You look divine, Juliette. As always.”

She relaxed, hiding her relief. A part of her always missed the closeness they had had before, like a sore wound, when she was a child and he a scrawny adolescent. Before a strange distance on his part changed the dynamics between them. Before he began touching her as if she were made of glass, not flesh. Before he decided to act the part of Capulet guard dog, waging war on Montagues.

But no, no bitterness. He was still Tybalt, her lion-maned cousin, now handsomely decked in burgundy robes. She was too old to tussle with him as she used to in her tomboy phase—but not too old to tussle with him in another way.

“You look very handsome in that costume. Constanza will be pleased. Will you dance with her?”

“She can wait,” he said gruffly. “You’re my priority tonight.”

That was what she was afraid of. “I told you, Ty. I don’t need protection from Count Paris. Mother will be there, for goodness’ sakes.” Probably flirting with him herself, to be honest.

“Yes, she’ll be there, dangling you in front of that wolf like a steak.” He shook his head, with the air of shaking off a fly. “You’re still too young.”

“Maybe, but not so innocent.”

“What do you mean?” A little too sharply.

“The Nurse and Mother spoke to me of marriage and—other things.”

It had been embarrassing, though for a different reason than the usual kind for these talks. Mostly her two mother figures sniped at each other and dispensed wisdom dubious at best, contradictory at worst. Needless to say, she wasn’t convinced Paris was the man for her. Or that marriage was even in her near future, for that matter.

“Ah,” he said, stiffly, and Juliette found herself taking his hand in fear he’d withdraw from her. “So of course, you know everything.”

“I did not say that, silly. But I’m prepared, aren’t I?”

For a brief moment, he looked hard. “Don’t worry about Paris, coz, or anyone else. You won’t marry, not any time soon. That I’ll promise you.”

And he gave her a look she’d recall only in hindsight, a split second before he stepped away from her, kissing her hand briefly. A confusion of questions whirled inside her. But then the Mute came, signing some questions from her mother, and she was distracted. When she turned again, Tybalt was gone, stolen away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually an oldie of mine, but thanks to my perfectionist tendencies, I sat on it for the longest. But as I felt the fanfic itch and I’m still fond of this one despite it all, I might as well post it up. I actually based it on a French fanfic with the same premise, though that one went into a much darker place, imperfectly executed. My take turned out to be much more comic than my usual; your mileage may vary. As usual, I use the original French cast/universe with moderate doses of Shakespeare. I’ll be posting a chapter every two days as a lark, but otherwise, it’s done. Anyway, give kudos if you like, comment, etc.


	2. The Ball

The summer air ripened, like a budding flower about to burst. Inside the glittering Capulet ballroom, the invitees gathered in their finery, their colorful costumes gleaming in the velvet twilight. Tybalt, close by, had been privy to the moment when his aunt introduced Juliette to Paris, lavish in a garish gold doublet, bowing with such an elaborate flourish it made Tybalt’s teeth ache. Juliette returned the courtesy, but not before he caught her fleeting expression of mild distaste. The growing dark pain in his chest eased at the sight; an unwitting grin tugged, spread.

“What did Juliette do this time?” A porcelain hand on his shoulder, Constanza’s beautiful, haughty face appearing. She flicked her burgundy hair over her shoulder in a quick, impatient gesture.

“What makes you think I was looking at Juliette?”

Her grip tightened. “Don’t play dumb with me, Tybalt. I know of you old.”

He freed his shoulder from her hand, scowling. He really had no time for jealous antics. “She’s my cousin, ‘Stanza. The Prince’s kinsman is wooing her tonight.”

“And you must protect her from his courtly blandishments. Naturally.”

“You’re a woman, what do you know of men’s ways?”

“I’ve been with you, haven’t I?” She took his face in her hands, fiercely. “Would you prove a man?”

Looking at her haughty aristocratic face, the silent plea in her fiery eyes, his resolution faltered. But then a flash of rose tulle caught the corner of his eye; before he could stop himself, he turned his head slightly. Constanza let him go, roughly, like a hot stovetop.

“Fine,” she said tightly, trembling. “Do what you will, for your precious Juliette.”

And before he could stop her, she stalked off and was swallowed up by the crowd. Cursing inwardly, he was about to follow her until he heard a familiar laugh, higher-pitched, that rose above the general din. He froze, a hot-cold chill running down his spine.

“I can see your reputation precedes you. Excellent lover, indeed. Evening, Prince of Cats.”

He took a deep breath, to steady him. Then he turned, his hand on his dagger.

“Nah-ah-ah,” said Mercutio, withdrawing a piece of perfumed apricot paper. “I have an invitation here, direct from your uncle to mine. So keep that wily blade of yours in its sheath…for now, anyway.”

Through the white flash of his hot rage, he registered Mercutio’s words, and their sense. He took the paper roughly. The Escalus had spoken true. It was genuine. He thrust it back to him.

“Get out.”

“Already? But we’ve only just arrived. Look, my cousin is having a blast courting yours. I can tell, he is doing his wooden puppet dance.”

“What does your damn cousin have to do with anything?”

“Nothing, but to remind you of your place,” said Mercutio easily, but his eyes were tight. “And mine.”

He slowly locked eyes with him, tawny on dark brown. “You may be the Prince’s kinsman, and the only reason why you are still breathing. But if you insist on hanging around Montague scum so often, don’t be surprised to find yourself treated like one—Mercutio.”

They glared at each other. Then Mercutio stepped lithely away.

“There’s no point in fighting here, Tybalt. This is a ball, after all. A truce, then, for tonight. You spend your evening your way, I’ll spend it mine. Farewell, Prince of Cats. Until next time.”

And without waiting for a response, Mercutio loped neatly away, fluid like water, out of his reach. One of his more maddening characteristics, his insistence on having the last word. Burning with frustration, Tybalt began to think. He did not believe for one moment that Mercutio was here just for innocent reveling. No, he had to have another motive. But what?

Then he remembered.

_Already? But we’ve only just arrived._

We.

Of course. He and Mercutio may have a private enmity, but he never did anything without—

Cursing, Tybalt launched himself into the fête, scouring the antechamber. He was on the Montague prowl.

* * *

  
Crash the Capulet ball, they said. Woo Juliette Capulet, they said. It’d be fun, they said.

Well, at least he could say he was right. Not that it was any consolation. Far from it.

Stifling a yawn, Romeo straightened up from the corridor wall stretching a little, and with great resignation, reentered the chamber in renewed search. It was official. This had to be the dullest ball he had ever crashed, filled with diplomats and complacent lords and ladies congratulating each other on their land and wealth. Kings of the world, indeed. Even the girls were not as pretty as they usually were at these things, though that may be his own melancholy mood speaking. And this Juliette Capulet was proving hard to find. Mercutio’s description wasn’t particularly helpful.

“Short, blonde, kind of pert,” he had replied, shrugging. “If that fails, keep an eye out for Tybalt. Damn cat is always hanging around her.”

He had seen Tybalt once, briefly, arguing with a gorgeous redhead, but no blonde. He made sure to avoid him, wary.

The hall was heavy and humid, perfumed with the heat of bodies, of the flickering torches. He was going down the entrance dais steps when a new swell of noise caught his attention. Puzzled, he looked about.

A break in the crowd, the rondo of a new dance, introduced to great applause. Twirling in the arms of some tall blond Capulet, gleaming like a pearl in rosewater, a miracle appeared. Stunned.

Whoa.

Her hair like woven sunlight undulated fluidly about her waist, the negative space contracting and expanding hypnotically. Her eyes were lowered, lips parted as if in mild ecstasy. It was impossible to say which looked more inviting, the silk of her dress or her skin. The desire to feel both was overwhelming. The bare arch of her neck alone gleamed brighter than the most precious jewel.

She was laughing at something her partner said and, feeling dizzy, he lowered himself on the dais steps, almost kneeling. He felt light, a curious sensation of flying; yet at the same time he had never felt more grounded, acutely aware of the brush of clothes on skin, the thunder of blood in his ears.

This was not Juliette Capulet, he thought, his heart like a caged animal in his chest, against all reason, all logical conclusion. It couldn’t be her, it just couldn’t. She was beyond all that. She was more than beautiful. She was—

The dance ended to short applause. As she bowed to her partner, he saw Tybalt himself approach her, whisper something low to her ear. She looked around suddenly; his heart leaped at the hope of meeting her gaze. They went off together a little ways away.

The sight of the bellicose Capulet finally snapped him out of his reverie, and he began to think a little more clearly. He sought out Balthazar, his mother’s factotum, who knew most anything about everyone in town.

“The short one, dancing with Leonardo earlier,” he explained, mouth dry, not bothering to hide his urgency.

“Her? Capulet’s daughter, I think. Julia or something.”

Capulet.

He had never taken the feud seriously, though for obvious, painful reasons, Capulets were far from his favorite people in the world. He was not a fighter by nature, and he saw no point in wasting time and energy taunting them the way Mercutio and occasionally Benvolio did. He kept away, only vaguely attending some of the jests and stereotypes their crowd perpetually circulated: Haughty, arrogant, hypocritical, and, with regards to Tybalt and his lackeys, just plain brutal. No love lost, in short, between him and Capulets in general. All this was hard to square with the luminous presence of this girl.

A kiss. Just a kiss. Although his friends, in typical male camaraderie, had dared him to do more.

“Sure, you can lay her,” Mercutio had said, eyeing him as if his doubt were something illogical. “Why not? It’s just a Capel. Go for it. At least fool around if you’re too chicken to go all the way.”

Short. Blonde. Kind of pert. Damn you, Mercutio. Full of shit like always.

He needed some air. To smoke. To think.

* * *

  
“Montagues here.”

When she heard her cousin’s low voice, she automatically looked around, as if at their mention they would appear about them. But the partygoers were in costume, of course, and masked.

“How do you know?”

“Mercutio of Escalus is here, so his crew must not be far. Sampson got his brother, so there are definitely more.”

“My father,” she said urgently, but Tybalt shook his head disgustedly.

“He told me that if they were not looking for trouble, to let them be,” he said through gritted teeth. “Reprimanded me for it. But they won’t get away with this. I won’t let them.”

She clutched his sleeve. “The Prince forbade any more fighting, on pain of death. You’ll get hurt. And Father will be angry.”

“It’s our house, Juliette. If we can’t teach these dogs a lesson, they’ll be back for more trouble.” But at her look, he softened. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you get hurt. Be careful. Keep guard.”

And before she could persuade him otherwise, he left, disappearing into the crowd.

Frustrated, nervous, the heat in the hall oppressive, she went in a small, cool antechamber for some extra wine. She sighed, gathering a handful of her hair and releasing it back, a nervous tic of hers. She had barely had two sips of her glass when movement in the corner of her eye made her jump.

“Sorry, I didn’t see—” She cut off. Blanching, flushing in quick succession.

“Sorry to startle you,” he said quietly after a moment, and in hearing his husky voice her heartstrings thrummed In a harmonious chord.

He straightened up away from the wall and, with one last puff, flicked away his cigarette. Six feet tall, in full contrast to her petite stature, rich dark skin and light, warm eyes. His hair was silky, like the pelt of a wildebeest. He gazed at her awhile without speaking, a gaze she was only beginning to recognize. A thought, unbidden and irrepressible, rose to consciousness.

Oh God, he was good.

She caught herself and looked hastily away, cheeks flaming. Once, when she was twelve, she had said the word in that sense aloud in front of the Nurse, in imitation of her cousins, and she had scolded her so harshly she had never dared utter it again. But as with any forbidden knowledge, she hadn’t forgotten it, and it returned with a vengeance at the sight of him. Those high cheekbones, lush lips that curved around that fortunate cigarette, the satin look of him…he was more than good, he was beautiful, the way a flame was beautiful. He was like an angel of light. An angel of hell.

“You didn’t startle me,” she said, too quickly, wincing inwardly at her inane response. She steeled herself, set her glass down: Get a grip, Juliette. It’s as if you’ve never seen handsome men before. You’ve just danced with Count Paris, for God’s sakes, proud and self-absorbed though he was. This one didn’t look all that much older anyway.

A small voice inside her responded: Yes, but not like this. Not like him.

“I saw you dancing with a lord earlier,” he said, very still as if the question were of utmost importance. “Is he your intended?”

“No, he’s just a suitor,” she said, inordinately pleased he had noticed, and hating herself for it. “I am not compromised.”

“Linger here awhile and you might be.”

At first she thought—she hoped—she had misheard; but it was there in his eyes. Her heart swelled.

“You’re very bold, youth,” she said, evenly enough. “I don’t know you from Adam. Did my father invite you?”

“I’m a plus one,” he said, and he smiled briefly as if he uttered an inside joke. “Romeo.”

“Romeo.” Classic, but common, characterless. And yet beyond a doubt it suited him. “A pilgrim, then. What kind of pilgrimage are you on?”

“The worship of a saint.”

“Any I know?”

“I’m not sure. Do saints know their own saintliness?”

“It’d be a wise saint indeed, but probably not a holy one.”

“If beauty were holy, she’d be the holiest of all.”

He approached her, and if she had ever doubted his meaning, she didn’t now. He took her hand slowly, gingerly, as if a too-rough touch would somehow defile it. When she made no move to take it back, heart in her throat, he kissed the back of it. The delicious shock of his lips on her skin liquified her limbs. She felt the urge to lean in, slip her hand around his cheek. Give into the bent of passion.

“This is some strange worship, pilgrim,” she said, breathy voice ruining the effect. “Saints have hands too, you know.”

“And lips.”

“To use in prayer.”

“Then let them do what hands do.” He leaned in.

“Would you deny me it?”

“You flatter me. I do not have that power.”

“You do,” he said quietly.

Instant crimson. “If you were indeed a pilgrim, then my granting you would be a curse.”

“Curse me, then,” he said.

And for a moment nothing mattered but the satin feel of his lips on hers, the warmth of his tongue slipping inside. The tension that had kept them some space apart collapsed at the contact, and the magnetic pull acted. They moved together; she found herself against the wall, hand cradling her head, fingers weaving through his hair.

Then, as suddenly as the kiss began, almost frightening in its intensity, it broke. She saw his eyes, at first unfocused, soften with unexpected tenderness as they fell on her. She knew the same look was mirrored in hers. He caressed her cheek, and the touch undid her. She kissed him again and he responded eagerly, mouth covering hers.

_I love you_ , came the hazy thought. She didn’t know how it happened, but it was true, and probably was so from the moment she saw him. He finally broke the kiss, stepping a little back, looking a little dazed.

“Come with me,” he said, suddenly urgent.

A sudden wariness came upon her. She hesitated, hand still on his, restraining, keeping it there. “I…”

A guttural cry or strangled yell, followed by a flash of whirlwind blonde. _Thud_. A rush of cool air and her arms were empty. Romeo was on the ground, blood on his upper lip.

“You dog.” Tybalt was wild with fury, heaving. He grabbed him by the lapel. “Filthy Montague.”

She pulled him back, with surprising strength. “Tybalt, no!”

To her surprise, he heeded her, though only to round on her. His grip on her arms was almost bruising. “Are you hurt? Did he…?”

Romeo rose, keeping wary distance. She wrenched herself from her cousin and stood between them, just in case Tybalt decided to go for another round. The look on his face suggested he might.

“Juliette, get away,” he snarled.

“No, I won’t let you,” she snapped. “This has gone far enough.”

“Do you realize what he did? Who he is?”

“You mistook, Tybalt,” she said, though her voice trembled. “Nothing happened.”

“What is going on?”

And as if to make matters worse, her own father arrived, a servant along with him. Now the chamber was crowded. Her father’s eyes turned flinty as he took in the scene.

“Uncle! This…dog was kissing Juliette.” Tybalt glared at him with such intensity Juliette almost flinched as if it had been directed at her.

“We were just talking,” he protested. “Your kinsman mistook.”

“Lies! I saw you, plain as day, up against her.”

“Juliette, is this true?” Lord Capulet’s eyes were flashing.

Between her cousin and her newfound love, quite literally. She took a breath to steady herself.

“Nothing happened, Father,” she said. “We were talking…and then Tybalt came and thought he was taking liberties.”

“He had you against the wall.” Tybalt’s voice was a soft snarl.

“The space was small, there was little room…please, Father, let it go. It’s a lot of fuss over nothing.”

In truth, she was scared. Her normally soft father was sharp for once, eyes sweeping the chamber, now crowded with five individuals, but certainly big enough for two. He looked at a shaking Tybalt, then herself, her own rosy complexion and disheveled appearance. Romeo’s split lip, his ruffled clothes. She tried to look steady, as if nothing had indeed happened.

“Nephew, did you see him kiss her?” he asked finally.

“No,” he said grudgingly, after a pause, shifting. “But they were close, uncle. It—it was not decent.”

He turned again towards her, but she had already prepared a countenance of schooled calm.

“Tybalt, escort Juliette to her room,” he said. “And do not come near the Montague under any circumstances, for the rest of the night.”

“But uncle—”

His protest was quelled by a sharp look on his part. Her father then turned to Romeo, and her blood froze in her veins at his cold look.

“As for you…Romeo, is it? I suggest you keep your conversations at a respectable distance from now on, to prevent further…misunderstandings.” He turned to Tybalt. “Take her.”

The tension eased. Tybalt, though breathing hard, was visibly appeased to see his uncle did not altogether disbelieve him. He took Juliette by the arm. Before she left, she thought to glance back and caught Romeo’s look—a mix of longing, frustration, regret.

“Uncle should have banished him from the estate.” In her chamber, Tybalt paced like a caged lion. “What was he thinking, letting him roam about still? But at least you’re safe.” He sat with her on her bed. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine, Tybalt.” She sighed. She felt, frankly, irritated, almost angry. Depressed. Without asking her, almost dismissively, her father had her banished from the party, and now Tybalt was acting as if she would break apart any second. And all of this ado because of a kiss. Her very first (she did not count Leonardo’s teasing one when she was thirteen).

Yet a part of her anger was directed at herself. What had she been thinking, this folly? She had known there was a strong possibility he was a Montague. Everything from his accent to his clothes to his bold impropiety had proclaimed it. What had possessed her to follow along with his flirtations? Some of her discontent must have showed in her face, for Tybalt’s face darkened like a storm cloud.

“I’ll kill him for this,” he swore. “He kissed you, didn’t he? Did he do more? Why did you cover for him?”

“I did not cover for him, don’t be silly.” She shook off her brooding thoughts. “It’s true, what I said. There was no kiss.”

“Juliette, we are alone. You don’t have to pretend for Uncle any longer. Tell me what happened.”

“I told you already. Yes, he was a bit improper, but he did not go that far. Please, leave it.”

Tybalt’s form shook in a paraxysm of emotion. To her surprise, he took a deep breath, reining in his temper.

“Juliette,” he said, “I know you’re but a maid. You do not know these things, nor you should. But he was looking at you like—like a man looks at a woman.”

A rippling hot-cold flash ran through her, the flesh memory of his touch potent. How could she forget his look, the mirror of her own?

“Even if that were true, there is no crime in looking,” she finally replied evenly, squaring her shoulders. “I’m not a doll, Tybalt. This will happen, anyway, now that I’m—more of age. I won’t break if a man looks at me in that way. Much less a youth only some years my senior.”

“Not so much a boy,” he said darkly. He turned away. “You don’t understand the danger you were in, Juliette. I’ve heard of him, Mercutio’s bosom companion. The beloved of Verona’s women.” He said this last with mocking contempt. “He has broken more hearts than he has years. And now he tried to make you his new conquest.”

“A Montague won’t make me his fool,” she said firmly, more to convince herself than anything else. She took his hands. “Content yourself, Tybalt. I’m all right. But even if something happened, you can’t go throwing punches at whoever even looks at me the wrong way.”

“Why not?” he grumbled. “It makes me feel better.” 

She was surprised into a laugh, a genuine one. His countenance softened at the sound. He finally sighed, defeated.

“It’s late. Rest easy now. I’ll make your excuses for Aunt Bella, say you’re not feeling well.”

But, as Juliette knew long after her cousin left, the conversation was not over. He knew her too well and though she could lie convincingly when needed, he could always see right through her. She was grateful, at least, that she would not be forced to rejoin the ball.

_The beloved of Verona’s women._ She could not help but take this to heart, a jealous pang. The depth of her folly, further illustrated. Granted, she hadn’t known who he was, but she should have known he was one of _those_ , handsome as he was. But though he had been unflinchingly forward, he hadn’t struck her as frivolous or casual. There had been nothing light about his holding her, the way he looked at her. The navel pull between them, like a gravitational force. But what did she know, she thought, suddenly angry, about libertine personalities? Her cousin and father, differences aside, had thought the same, and surely they knew better?

She retired early, lying awake in bed long after she should have been sleeping, thinking of him, keeping the memory of the kiss alive in her heart as much as able, a bit of treasure. For sure as she was a maid, that was the last she’d ever see Romeo Montague. She was decided, and even if she would spend the rest of her life spilling silent tears, she would not rescind it.

* * *

  
Watching Juliette leave with her cousin was a mistake, and so was his meeting her eyes, however briefly. When he turned back to Lord Capulet, the both of them alone, it was too late. The older man radiated pure ice.

“I don’t know what happened between you and my daughter. But if I ever catch you near her again, I’ll make you rue the moment you ever laid eyes on her. Enjoy the feast, and don’t come back again.”

So, faced with such warm welcome, Romeo sought out Benvolio and Mercutio to call it a night. They gaped at the sight of him.

“The hell happened to you?” Mercutio looked almost impressed.

“Hell happened to me, yes,” he answered vaguely, and those fools he called his best friends laughed. “And heaven. Where’s Valentine and the rest? We have to go, Tybalt knows we’re here.”

“You don’t say,” said Mercutio ironically. He shook his head at his inquiring look. “Never mind, you’re right. C’mon.”

Later on, out in the street, Mercutio asked, “So how was the torrid affair with Miss Buttercup? How far did you go?”

He silently counted to ten before answering. “I kissed her. And then Tybalt came and punched me in the mouth.”

Which they, obviously a little drunk, thought the most hilarious thing in the world, and fell down to the ground laughing. He elected to ignore them. Leaning back against the cool garden wall, he briefly closed his eyes. The image of the Capulet girl, like a phantom, pressed against his eyelids, her passionate kiss, her honey lips. It had been like heaven, being in her arms. And then came Tybalt to ruin it all.

If it had been some other girl, the events of this night would have definitely persuaded him that she was not worth the trouble. One just did not mess with Capulets alone without backup—only Mercutio was mad enough to go that far, Benvolio barely reining him in. But the look she had given him before she left with her cousin haunted him. It had been a look of worry. For him.

She had protected him, lied for him, against her beloved cousin. Why? Dare he hope that she…?

He did not want to return home, could not. Instead, he ditched his friends and wandered the streets, hoping the very proximity would ease his longing. Instead, it merely grew, overwhelming like a forest flame.

A Capulet. The one girl whom he had felt a connection, been drawn to, who had excited him, captivated him—and she was a Capulet. Well, so be it. He had fooled around with some before, but then again, that had been fooling. Whatever this was, it was new, and it scared and excited him in equal measure.

He turned back toward the Capulet side. Filial loyalty, adieu. Love had come and it could not wait. His center was calling for him.


	3. The Balcony

That night, lurid dreams of him came to her, and this time he was doing more than just kissing. _They_ were doing more than just kissing.

True, the details were hazy. Even in her dreams they didn’t progress much to mere nakedness, the sheer relief of unmitigated sensation without cloth. The union of their bodies transgressed into the spiritual; she felt herself blend into the heat of him, their bodies swallowed by a sphere of light.

The dream was vivid, but brief, and when she woke up in a light sweat, a growing dampness between her legs, she felt as wide awake as she was in the start of the night. She looked at the clock on her bedside table. It was half past ten.

A shock went through her. So early? When had she retired? She hadn’t noticed. Her room was still empty. The Nurse and the Mute hadn’t even returned.

Disconcerted, drawing close her robe, she ventured out into the balcony, hoping that outside there’ll be cooler air. The summer air was yet balmy, such so that she loosened her robe. The torches were still lit, the buzz of stragglers could be heard in front.

Above was a starry sky, the bright full moon hung low. It made her smile—such beauty—but in sadness. Dreams, where the impossible became possible. But in waking, sober reality, doubts returned, Tybalt’s words dampening her elation. Why had he been there, a Montague, surrounded by her kinsmen? Why had he flirted with her, kissed her, if he knew or suspected she was a Capulet? Why was the most beautiful boy she had ever seen called Romeo in the first place, a Montague? And why did such a crucial fact increasingly mean little to her?

She didn’t notice, at first, her speaking aloud. After all, she had only the orchard plants for an audience.

“Oh, Romeo,” she said, closing her eyes briefly. “I wish could hate you for this. I still could, you know. But I don’t care, I want you. I want to see you again, be with you if I could. If you love me, truly love me…then leave your name, and take me for myself.”

“Do you mean that?”

Her cry stuck in her throat; only a high-pitched gasp eked out. She looked down, but the residual light illuminated no person.

“Who said that? Who are you?” Pause. “Romeo?”

“Do you mean that?” It was him, his voice, timbre, everything.

“Where are you? Come out.”

“Not until you answer my question.”

“What if I refuse?”

“That’s too bad,” he finally replied. “But I thought you might. Since you want me so much and all.”

Was he actually _teasing_ her? Oh, God. She wanted to die on the spot.

“Well, I don’t,” she said hastily. “That was a mistake, a moment of madness. Now go, you shouldn’t be here. If my father or Tybalt find you again here—”

“I’m not afraid.”

He appeared and finally she saw him, still in his ball garb, loosened about his slender form.

“Let them find me here,” he said in a tone loud enough, as if in a dare. “I’d rather die by their hand than live still without your love. Will you rescind it, love?”

“Don’t call me that.” Though her heart sang at the word. She had opened his mouth to tell him to go when she saw him properly. “Oh, God.”

“What is it?”

“It’s worsened.”

He touched his lip gingerly. He had cleaned up the blood some, evidently, but now a bruise was forming. “Oh. That. It doesn’t hurt as much now.”

“Come up now.” Her tone broached no argument; her Nurse’s tone, in fact. “Let me look at it. It looks inflamed. Can you wait until I get some ice?”

Fortunately, he was there on the balcony when she returned. Sure enough, his upper lip had swollen. He hissed a little in pain as she held the small kerchief.

“Hold still.”

“Your cousin has a mean right hook,” he said, a little muffled through the cloth.

“I’m so sorry. Ty’s a sweetheart—don’t laugh, why are you laughing?—but he’s loyal to a fault and he absolutely hates Montagues. He never should have hit you.”

“I’d have done it again even if I’ve had to face a dozen Tybalts.”

That magnetic pull again, at the sudden earnestness in his eyes, jerking her around the navel. She found she couldn’t look at him for too long, for then she found she couldn’t look away. “You don’t mean that.”

“It’s true.”

“You shouldn’t say such things.”

“And you shouldn’t have said such things about me earlier. And you shouldn’t be trying to heal me, a Montague, alone in the middle of the night.”

“I’m not kindless.” Though at that moment she wished she were. His lip, beautifully soft, had lowered. She lowered her hand. “Better?”

“A little,” he said, softened. “Maybe if I could lie down somewhere. Is your lap free?”

She laughed before she could stop herself. _That_ look on his face came back.

“I love you,” he said.

She straightened quickly, moving away. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him, exactly. It was that she didn’t trust herself.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I swear it.”

“Even worse. You could perjure yourself.”

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, apropos to nothing. “The more I see you…it just grows and grows.”

She resisted the urge to throw up her hands. “You always say the right and wrong thing in the same breath, it’s uncanny.”

“Say you love me, Juliette,” he said, straightening, taking her hands. “Exchange vows with me.”

“I gave you mine before you requested it.” His hands were warm, right in hers. She held them tightly, stared at them. “But that’s neither here nor there. This cannot be.”

“I’ll renounce my name,” he said immediately. “From this time forth, I never will be Montague.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is. Besides, you asked me to.”

“Forget what I said earlier,” she snapped.

“Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. Say you don’t love me, that you care nothing for me. Say you don’t want me to be here.”

He leaned forward, and she was suddenly conscious of the impropriety of it all: Her sheer loose-collar nightgown beneath her buttonless robe, bosom uncorseted. Her hair was loose over her shoulders, almost wildly so. Her heart skipped a beat when he swept it back over her shoulder.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asked.

What she wanted was to kiss him. Badly. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“You protected me earlier. Lied for me.”

“I didn’t want to cause a fuss. It was just a kiss.”

“No,” he said firmly. “It wasn’t.”

Hope swelled within her like an orchestra crescendo, almost painful.

“You’re right,” she said, and he even looked taken aback. “I shouldn’t have said that, that wasn’t fair. Nor true. But please, go, before anyone sees you.”

“Will we meet again? Tell me that, at least.”

“Romeo, I…” She squared her shoulders. Conviction, that was key. “It’s best we don’t. I’d rather we don’t.”

She turned around, but not before he caught her by the wrist. Flushed against him, she placed her hands on his arms, to push him away. To keep him still.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he said, and he kissed her.

It did not last long. She felt him flinch slightly against her, his breath coming out in a hiss. She brushed his cheek.

“You’re still hurting.”

“It’s not much.” His hand about her waist tightened, as if afraid she’d back off.

What flimsy resistance she had gave way with a loose tug. She caressed his cheek, brushed away strands of his hair. He touched his forehead with hers. They stayed like this for a long while.

“Juliette.” The mere sound of her name alone said so much.

“Come back tomorrow night,” she found herself saying. “And then—we’ll see.”

He gazed at her for a moment, as if searching for an answer to an unspoken question. Somehow she knew what he needed, without words. She reached en pointe to kiss his cheek.

“Goodnight, Romeo,” she said.

He caught her once more about her mouth, but softer this time. There gained a chill in the summer air at his absence, and she drew her robe tighter about her. She wished she hadn’t chased him off so soon. She wished she could still kiss him.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Juliette.”

For one wild moment, she thought Romeo had returned. A hot-cold flash went through her when he appeared, coming out from out the bushes.

“Poet,” she breathed.

It was her father’s scribe, still in his ball garb. He bowed briefly, more in acknowledgement than true courtesy.

“I came to speak with you,” he said, “but I found you were…occupied.”

There could be no doubt. His tone was disapproving. She gripped the balcony’s edge in fear. “Poet, you mustn’t tell Father. I beg you.”

I’ll keep your secret, my lady.” His light eyes were earnest. “I don’t want a war any more than you do. Still. You mustn’t meet with him.”

Juliette bit her lip. The Poet had always been a mystery to her. Though officially he was just a servant, her father depended on him much as a factotum. For her part, as a child and now, she had liked him mostly because she sensed his affection for her, his manner warm and mild. Now, however, he was all business.

“I know who he is,” she said. “But Poet…this is different. This could change everything.”

“Yes,” he said. “This will change everything.”

To her shock, he knelt down, like a penitent, like a lover himself, suing for her kind word.

“Forget tonight. Accept Paris’ offer. Reject Romeo. Or if you must have him, have him as a lover if the count fails to satisfy you.”

She had never heard him speak like this to her, to anyone. “You go too far, Poet.”

“I’m sorry to be so crude. But we have little time, and so I must be blunt. Already you’re in love with him, and fate acts quickly. The slightest change may make all the difference in the world.”

It was useless to deny this. Yet why did he speak with such confidence? “Poet, do you know something I don’t know?” And then, slipping out: “Will he be true?”

“He will be as true,” he said slowly, as if reluctant to admit this, “as you will.”

And he, who could hear the earth speak, who knew things he shouldn’t, refused to say anything more or answer any more of her questions. He gave her a low bow and a parting look of what appeared to be regret.

“Juliette!” Her Nurse, calling from inside. “Where are you?”

She let out a heavy sigh she didn’t know she was holding. It felt like years since she had seen the Nurse. Half a lifetime had been spent on her balcony. The memory of their embrace, the feel of him against her, came to her. She felt its giddy warmth return to her.

The Nurse, smoothing the bedsheets with the Mute, paused when she came in, straightening. After a long moment, she sighed.

“All right, dear. Who is he and what do you want me to do?”


	4. Interim & Aftermath

Some streets away from the balcony where Romeo and Juliette had spoken in peace, almost completely unobserved, Tybalt and the Capulets acted in swift retaliation. They looked down on some Montagues below in the hilly incline of a street.

“Sampson, Gregory, flank them.” He also intercepted his right-hand man. “Ottavio. Keep an eye out for Romeo.”

The stout, bullish Capulet nodded, and descended with the two grunts. Tybalt could see the Montagues scattering already, raising up the alarm. Good. They deserved it for the trick they tried to pull tonight.

“Oi!”

He turned around. Mercutio had arrived, incensed, Benvolio at his heels along with some other Montagues, who joined their kin below.

“So much for truces,” he said bitingly. “Where’s your beloved honor, cat?”

“I never promised you anything, Mercutio,” he said coldly. “If you want to fight me, I’m yours, but my business is not with you. Your gigolo friend took liberties with my cousin, and he must pay.”

“Maybe you should guard that cousin of yours more closely in the future, if you know what’s good for her,” said Mercutio, sneering.

“Don’t, ‘Cutio,” said Benvolio sharply as Tybalt went very, very still.

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean is, she’s a pretty girl. Romeo always had an eye for that. And if she happens to be a Capulet…well, you kill two birds with one stone, do you?”

Tybalt grabbed Mercutio by the lapel. Benvolio interceded, trying to shake him off, but his vice grip was too strong.

“Where. Is. He?”

“Cool your tits, cat, he’s not with us. But let’s just say I have a good idea. Depends, though. How willing are you to venture into your cousin’s muff?”

It was good luck that Benvolio managed to break Tybalt’s grip in time and pull Mercutio away. The look on Tybalt’s face alone would have felled them.

“You tell your friend that if he so much as looks at my cousin ever again, his life is mine for the taking. Make no mistake. I will find him and I will kill him.”

They glared at each other for a long moment. The commotion below finally broke their silent battle of wills. Tybalt, breathing hard, whistled them over.

“He’s not here. Move out!”

The Capulets retreated. Tybalt shot one last black look at Mercutio and Benvolio.

“Deliver Romeo my warning,” he said before rejoining Ottavio. As soon as he left, Benvolio rounded on his friend.

“The fuck did you antagonize him for? Might as well have handed Romeo on a plate!”

“He was searching for him anyway.” Mercutio was breathing hard. “Son of a bitch. Hope Romeo lays her good.”

“Think you he’s with her?”

“Where else? Didn’t you see his face? He was muff-happy.”

“I’ve never seen Tybalt this angry before,” said Benvolio after a moment, glancing at the retreating Capulets with a nervous air. “That cousin is his weak spot.”

“More than that, if the rumors be true,” said Mercutio darkly, “which I don’t doubt they are. Pervert.” He shook his head. “Come on, let’s go. It’s late.”

For his part, as soon as Tybalt arrived at the Capulet estate, harried, he went straight to Juliette’s room. The Mute, who answered, did not allow him entrance.

 _She is sleeping_ , she signed.

“Did anyone come to see her? Did she talk to anyone else besides you and the Nurse?”

 _None_ , the mute servant replied.

This took the bite of his anger somewhat. But something still didn’t feel right. The mute girl looked a little nervous—was it guilt?

“All right, Mute. Tell me if you hear anything or anyone with Juliette.”

After she was dismissed, Tybalt returned to his room, paced its length. He could do nothing tonight, as he had no proof, and no idea of the Montague’s whereabouts. But come tomorrow, he would find him. Come tomorrow, he’d be his.


	5. Reckoning

Behind the divider, a humming issued, a lyrical, romantic melody. Tybalt disliked it almost instantly. All those repetitious notes, its cloying sentimentality. Still, he closed his eyes briefly at hearing her sweet voice.

“Will you tell me what happened?”

The humming stopped. “Oh, not this again. Tybalt, I told you, nothing happened. He was just flirting.”

“ _Just_ flirting?”

“At worst. You can’t flip out every time a man compliments me. Count Paris will have a hard time at his court if that were the case.”

“Good. He should have a hard time.”

“Oh, Tybalt.”

She finally came out, wearing an ivory summer frock with vine-entwined red roses. The Nurse, cleaning the daybed with the Mute, beat him to the punch.

“Change.”

“Nurse, I’m only taking a walk around the garden.”

“Change,” she repeated firmly.

Juliette bit her lip but turned back without further argument. Relief flooded him, heady. A man divided, as always. Part of him, the cousin side, deplored the clinging, sleeveless dress, the plunging V-neckline bordering on risqué. The other part…well, his aunt was right about one thing. She was not a child anymore.

His resolve hardened. She was the only thing good in his life, and he was damned if she became the fool of some lousy rake. If he could not stop Juliette from growing, he could at least protect her from the lechery of others.

Having changed into more modest wear, Juliette joined him for a turn about the orchard. The former was silent, in a reverie, staring unseeingly into the distance.

“So why did you defend him?” he asked, hoping to catch her off-guard.

“I do not defend him. He did not do anything.”

“Juliette, I know you of old. I know what I saw.”

“All right, then, what did you see?” she snapped, losing patience.

“You really wish to know?” He glanced around, making sure they were alone, before leaning in. “I saw a Montague dog attempt to seduce my cousin on some plot by his lackeys.”

She stopped right in her tracks. “Explain.”

The dark suspicion in his chest, mute, grew. He ventured carefully. “I saw Mercutio last night.”

“Tybalt!”

“Relax, nothing happened. Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is, he knew about Romeo’s kissing you.”

He did not fail to notice her face turning a whiter shade of pale.

“He…he must have told his friends about it,” she muttered, almost distractedly.

“Yes, and had a good laugh with them at your expense. It’s obvious what happened. He had picked you out for himself to dally, as a prank or dare.”

“Did Mercutio tell you this?”

“That clown didn’t have to. He’s always running that mouth of his.” Pause. “You don’t look well.”

“I’m fine,” she said, vaguely. Her eyes looked hazy, unfocused. A little watery.

He took her arm, almost roughly. “Juliette, speak true. Did you like him?”

“Like him? Romeo Montague?” She shook him off, tone incredulous, voice shaky. “Don’t be ridiculous. The very thought.”

“He is handsome, Montague dog though he may be.” Though it personally mystified him—boy looked like a right fop to him—he was not unaware of his influence on women. “If he has charmed you—”

“He hasn’t,” she said, rounding on him, eyes flashing. “Not at all.”

He had never seen her this fierce, this passionate. Jealousy bubbled within him like cauldron soup. “If he comes back for more mischief, you know what to do. In the meantime…be careful, Juliette.”

To his surprise, she embraced him, almost burying her head in his chest. He embraced her back, heart thumping in his chest at the contact.

“Thank you, Tybalt,” she said, muffled, before tearing away and running up the stairs into the estate.

He watched her go, a mix of regret, suspicion, heaviness, frustration whirling within him. Instead of assuaging his doubts and fears, more have sprung up. Instead of killing his suspicion, it continued sprawling into a complex web. Instead of assuaging his jealousy, it only grew deeper.

And yet. Even if Juliette were not infatuated with the youth, he knew his course. Romeo had to pay for the crime in touching her, kissing her, the way he, Tybalt, had desperately wanted for so long. Shameful love aside, she was still his cousin, his family, and he had dared to trifle with her as if she were another one of his sluts.

No more. He had a plan to end all that.

* * *

  
“Ow!”

“I told you to hold still. Chew this herb.”

Wincing, he accepted the plant as the Friar slathered on a salve. Already the swelling on his lip had deflated. The Friar was practical and expert at healing and all manner apothecary. But, of course, he preferred Juliette’s sweeter touch, her eyes roving anxiously over his face. To which god or star did he owe that loving concern in her eyes? He had wanted so badly to kiss her, injured lip or no.

“You’re lucky Tybalt didn’t get you at a good angle,” his ghostly confessor commented, frowning. “He could have seriously injured you.”

“It was worth it, just to kiss Juliette.”

The Friar tsked to himself as a private comment, but said nothing. He knew all about Juliette, of course, for Romeo had told him, almost as soon as he arrived. After the shock of seeing him injured had worn off, he had set straight to work, hmming and commenting in all the right places. Romeo made sure he wasn’t holding anything before revealing that Juliette was the heir of Capulet. Predictably, the older man took it well.

“Romeo!”

“I know, I know,” he had sighed. “But she was so beautiful, Friar. Like a dream.”

“Then it’s best you wake up. Be reasonable, son. If Tybalt did this to you, what further ill could he and the Capulets do to you if they knew?”

“I’m not afraid of them. We won’t get caught, Friar. I love Juliette, I won’t lose her by being reckless.”

“That’s good, my son, but reflect. If anyone finds out about you two, it’ll be your blood in the streets next.”

“Not,” he said, the idea dawning on him and taking firm hold, “if we were married.”

Hands freezing, lowering. “Romeo, no.”

“Why not?”

“You know very well why not.”

“There’s nothing wrong with her. With us.”

“Wrong, no. But passion is like fire, giving more heat than light. And just as short-lived. It’s no substitute for the constancy of love that marriage needs and demands.”

“This is more than just passion. It’s—” But how he could he describe it? “It’s like the sun itself. It’s beyond just me or her now.” 

At last he sighed, long-suffering. “Do you love her that much?”

He could still feel the imprint of her lips on his cheek, a ghostly, warm tingling. The answer came immediately. “Yes.”

The Friar scrutinized him closely, in deliberating silence. “What will you do?”

“Return. What else?”

“And if her kinsmen are around?”

“They won’t find me. But even so, I’ll brave it. I must see her again.”

He considered this. “Does she love you?”

The tenderness in her glowing face, the gleam in her eyes. He had tasted sweetness of her lips, better than wine. “Yes, Friar.”

The Friar finally sighed. “Let me dress you up first. We’ll see then what we will do.”

And now they fell into silence. The Friar slipped him a small vanity mirror, which showed his lip in much better shape, the swelling eased.

“Marry us, Friar,” he said. “Our union could end this feud. No more hate. No more violence. Love can heal all wounds, you said that once.”

“I did not mean that kind of love, Romeo.” But he shook his head, almost to himself. “This is a dangerous game.”

“Which is why I’m not playing it.” A thought occurred to him. “If Juliette accepts me as her husband, will you consent to marry us?”

“ _If_ she accepts you?”

True, that was awkward. “We may have only touched on it briefly.”

The Friar shot him a look Romeo would swear was fond if it weren’t so exasperated. “ _If_ she accepts you…and if it can bring about the reconcilement of your families…then yes. I will marry you two. You will meet her tonight? Bring her to the chapel, then.”

So it was agreed, and he, light-headed with excitement, kissed the Friar’s hand in gratitude. He could not have known, of course, what was to come.

* * *

  
When he returned to the balcony, the orchard lush and verdant beneath a starry but moonless sky, it was empty of Juliette. It looked cold, devoid of life. Forbidding.

This didn’t deter him, of course. He climbed anyway. He could see light from inside shining through the double glass doors. He knocked twice, firmly, and, after a long moment, too impatient to wait, he came in; the doors, he noted, were unlocked.

The Nurse slowly straightened, Juliette’s dress in her hands, looking grim. Juliette, hair loose over her bare shoulders, sat at her vanity in her light rose nightgown. The Mute did not expect him, backing away—but thankfully her shock was silent.

“It’s all right, Mute,” said Juliette, taking her hands briefly. “I know him. Nurse, give us leave.”

“Juliette, I can’t leave you alone with him,” said the Nurse, clearly a continuation of an argument.

Juliette turned to look her straight in the eye. “You can and you will, sirrah.”

A flash of stunned hurt, another of anger. Nurse and ward held a silent battle of wills. He was not at all surprised to see Juliette win.

“We’ll be near,” she said, almost in warning. “Mute, come along.”

He watched nurse and servant leave without comment or even interest. But he did register the change, the tense charge in the air, and it confused him. Juliette rose, awash in her rose silks, her air almost regal. She crossed the room, her back to him. To him, she was beautiful, even while clearly incensed, perhaps because of it.

“You weren’t at the balcony,” he said, struggling to make sense of it all. A tinge of fear: Had she changed her mind?

“I wasn’t ready. You didn’t specify the time, after all.”

“You knew I’d come tonight.” Unable to take it, he approached her. “Juliette—”

She whipped around. He had read her right; she was angry.

“I don’t want you to come again. I don’t ever want to see you again, period. This—whatever this was—folly rather—it’s over.”

Had this scene turned into a nightmare without him realizing it? But the brimming tears in her eyes were all too real.

“What do you mean?”

“What I meant. What you heard.”

“If you’re having doubts again…Juliette, I swear—”

“No! No vows,” she said, backing away. “No swearing. You may prove false, you _have_ proven false.”

She was making no sense. He struggled to get his bearings. “Juliette, I loved you since the moment I saw you, and I know it was the same for you. You know it’s true.”

“Is this a part of the original bet,” she asked quietly, “or is this confession of love extra for fun?”

Total and complete silence. Her eyes were glittering strangely. Heart sinking, fast and low.

“How—?”

“It doesn’t matter how I know. You came that night to seduce me, didn’t you? The ultimate vengeance of a Montague on a Capulet.”

“Juliette—” he started, stronger now, but she moved away.

“I would’ve gone with you.” Now she wasn’t holding back, her pain raw, unhidden. “What you felt, I felt it too. You struck me from the moment I saw you, and I…poor fool—” She brushed away her hot tears violently.

He could stand it no longer. He pulled her struggling form to him.

“Let me go!”

“Not until you listen to what I have to say.” He took her salty cheeks in his hands. “Hear me, Juliette.”

“Did your friends dare you to sleep with me?” she demanded, stilling enough to look at him. “Or did you take it upon yourself to prove it?”

Worse and worse. “It’s not that simple.”

“I’ll make it so,” she said, fiery. “Your friends or you?”

They locked eyes for a moment, his pleading, hers watery but coldly stubborn.

“My friends,” he said grudgingly.

She tried to break from him, but he anticipated this and held her fast; he knew that if she succeeded, it was the end, she’d never have aught to do with him, and he could not bear that. She pushed against his chest with such strength it hurt, an avenging tempest in his arms. Frustrated, she lashed out, fists flying. He took her fists, which sapped the fight in her. She buried her face in his chest, crying the words _I hate you_ over and over again, body shaking like a leaf. As he hugged her tightly to him, something in him snapped. He could bear her anger, even her hate. But not her pain.

“Juliette—”

“No,” she moaned. “I can’t hear you, I can’t.”

She tried again to withdraw, but he could not bear this again. He took her wrists and, forcing her on her knees, pressed her against the floor. The shock of him over her finally stilled her.

“It was some stupid dare,” he heard himself saying, almost evenly, “some game my friends thought would help me out of my melancholy. It doesn’t matter now, nothing does. I couldn’t care less about the feud. I was yours from the moment I laid eyes on you, just as you are mine even now. We can play the fools for days and weeks and months on end pretending what we feel for each other is hate or whatever crazed delusion we try to spin for ourselves. But I can’t do that, Juliette. For one thing, I really hate waiting, and for another, it’d be a stupid, fruitless waste of time. I’m sorry we met under the circumstances we did, but I’m not sorry to have met you. I’m not sorry for my love.”

On the floor they laid, the silence only broken by their haggard breathing. She had stilled beneath him, completely silent. Sensing she would not fight him, he released her gingerly, passing a caressing hand her cheek in silent apology for the rough treatment. His words were all spent in the defense of his cause. He laid down beside her. She stared stiffly at the ceiling, strands of her blonde hair wrapped about her jumping throat like ribbons of lace. Her silence was hostile, incredulous, but also hurt. Fragile. She had closed her eyes briefly at his caress, in a joy like pain.

“Will you marry me, then?” she asked hoarsely.

“Yes.”

It was clear she did not expect this. She finally looked at him. _How?_ her eyes asked.

“I meant to tell you earlier. I spoke with Friar Lawrence. He said he’ll marry us tonight. But if we go, it must be now, Juliette.”

It seemed to take a moment for this information to sink in. She rose slowly, struggling. “Tonight?”

“Yes.”

She shook her head, but vaguely, almost as if to clear it. “You deceive me.”

“I mean it.” He took her cheek in his hand, its salty wetness sticking. “Will you go with me?”

“Do you really?” Her eyes roved over his face as if she could discover the answer there. She laid a hand over his on her cheek. “Or is this to trick me?”

“I’m serious.” He had never been so serious in his life. If Juliette rejected him, he was done. He just was. “This is it. Juliette, now.”

Thoughts, emotions too quick to define darted in her spheres of eyes, the plains of her face. What she did next, with the deliberate air of challenge, shocked him to the core. Her hand still over his, she grasped it firmly, guiding it over her neck, the roll of her shoulder, the swell of her plump breast. His hand jerked reflexively, like a hot brand, but she held it firm.

“Are you sure you don’t want something else?” she asked.

Uncorseted, her silk nightgown but an unsubstantial layer to her raw pearly ripeness. Of course he wanted her. His desire was never in question, and it threatened to draw him into her woman’s spell, his palms itching to shift to her under-curve. Beneath his fingers he could feel her heart jumping, as if wanting to leap into his palm.

“Other than you? No.”

“Then why don’t you take me?” Accusatory, bitter…excited?

“I would have your love’s faithful vow first.”

She gave an odd sound, a mix between a scoff and a breathless laugh. “Again, I gave you mine before you even requested it.”

It was as if the dream-like spell that had fallen over them, stopping time, had broken. She released his burning hand and stood, fastening her robe, face flushed. She took a shaky breath, sweeping the strands of her hair from her face. “Yes.”

It came so suddenly and easily it took him aback. “What?”

If the matter were any less serious, he suspected she might have smiled at this. She exhaled shakily, wiped away the salty residue from her cheeks. “If you truly love me and really mean to marry me, then yes. I’ll follow you throughout the world, as your wife, you as my lord.”

He too rose in a thrice, approached to kiss her, but she balked.

“I can’t do this,” she said. “I cannot hope and then be deceived again. It would end me, _I_ would end me.”

So he held her close, trying to convey a deeper passion beyond what mere words could reveal. The clichés we live by fail us when we are most in need. Juliette rested her hands on his forearms, but did not look at him, almost purposefully. She felt it too, he realized.

“Juliette.”

Her eyes lifted up to his, and the magnetic force acted.

Their kiss was like a chain, long, unbroken, continuous, a wordless conversation of hope and reassurance. In her jasmine scent, her lips’ honey, an immortality in little. Life, courage, and desire imbued in it all at once, greater than the most potent cordial. She eventually broke the kiss, glowing—he bent down again to kiss her, but she ducked her head with a breathless laugh.

“We have to go now, you said. Let me change. I’ll be quick.”

An undressed Juliette was definitely something he was interested in, but she ducked behind the divider. Might as well; his own urgency had returned with a vengeance. He jumped at the voices behind the door. The Nurse’s voice, alarmed, strained.

“She is changing, no, you can’t go in there—”

Loud, insistent knocking. “Juliette!”

Juliette emerged from the divider in travel robes, pale.

“Tybalt,” she said.

But it was too late. The door opened with a bang, and Lord Capulet and Tybalt came in with guards and armed servants.

“Hold! Arrest him!”

Three things happened very quickly then. Juliette launched herself at him, clinging to him like ivy to an oak; the guards hesitated for a sliver of a moment, unwilling to harm the heir in the line of fire; and Romeo, as was his wont, acted without thinking. He wrapped an arm around Juliette and pulled her toward the balcony doors and into the open night.


	6. Flight & First Night

Not a moment wasted, not even a moment’s rest, characterized that desperate flight. They ran as if the devil were at their heels or worse, for if Capulet’s men ever caught up with them, they’d be separated for sure, and that’d be a fate worse than death. Romeo knew the way to Friar Lawrence’s chapel even without looking, taking the shortcuts he knew.

They arrived at there with no trouble, their plans and whereabouts yet unknown, although they could already hear the cry being raised in the distance, torches lit. Juliette had had the presence of mind to hood her head during the flight, but Romeo had no such cover. Anyone could easily recognize him.

Inside, the Friar was pacing at the altar. He looked up at their entrance, surprised at their harried appearance, their breathlessness.

“Romeo, what happened?”

“No time,” he managed. “We need to get…married immediately.”

Outside, calls were raised. The Friar, for his part, understood immediately.

“Come,” he said, mouth thinning into a tight line. “We must begin.”

After confession, the ceremony was brief, straightforward, a relief. They could hardly attend the Friar’s text, so sensitive they were to any hint of trouble outside. They knelt together, holding hands though the rites did not call for it; it gave them comfort.

“Repeat after me: I, Romeo Montague, take thee, Juliette Capulet…”

“I, Romeo Montague, take thee, Juliette Capulet…”

“I, Juliette Capulet, take thee, Romeo Montague…”

“I, Juliette Capulet, take thee, Romeo Montague…”

“As my wife.”

“As my wife.”

“As my husband.”

“As my husband.”

At the end of their vows, they kissed, passionate but brief. They jumped at the loud knocking on the double doors.

“There is an empty chamber upstairs next to my cell,” said the Friar urgently. “Go, quickly. Don’t come out until I come.”

They found the room quickly, and spent a good ten minutes glued to the door, ears on the wood, in a semi-embrace. Below they could hear voices, official-sounding ones, the Friar’s among them. They heard the doors close with a heavy thud. In a moment they heard footsteps on the winding stairs, the Friar rejoining them.

“They were the night-watch, searching for you, Romeo,” he said. “They told me you had kidnapped the daughter of Capulet. I told them that I had no knowledge over your actions earlier this evening, which was true, and that I did not know you had absconded with the Capulet heir, also true. Luckily for me, they did not have the sharpest minds. So what happened?”

They explained briefly the events of this evening, the Friar growing grim.

“I’ll bed you down here. You’re free to spend the night. But by morning, I must return you to your parents. I can’t equivocate further, for fear of my soul.”

Only after the servant he sent, clearly if reluctantly sworn to secrecy, left behind candles, water, and clean linen did they relax. From the small window they could still see the torches moving swiftly like a fiery river in the night. There was only one bed, an austere friar’s cot just big enough for two. It was then that they understood the Friar fully expected them to take advantage of their time together. Probably even depended upon it as part of his plan.

They laid down gingerly together, him taking off his jacket, her discarding her cloak, arms about each other. Their flight had left them shaky.

“I shouldn’t have absconded with you,” he said, though as a fact rather than anything to be seriously regretted. “Now they think I forced you against your will.”

“I’ll defend you from my parents, to anyone,” said Juliette firmly, lacing her fingers with his. “They can’t ignore my will totally. You’re my love, and they’ll have to accept it, eventually.”

The miracle of this night, which had begun so catastrophically but ended so well, more or less. Juliette’s eyes were blazing, her face with a glow that did not owe itself to the candlelight. What did he do to deserve such fortune? He played with the loose tresses of her hair.

“You came with me.” He was light-headed over the memory.

“I had no choice,” she said softly, eyes closing briefly. “You were right. There is something between us, stronger than anything I’ve felt before. It’s useless to deny it.”

He understood immediately. “The pull.”

She nodded. “I don’t know where it comes from. But I can’t deny it. All I know is when I look at you, I…I lose my reason.”

“Juliette…”

Merging together, an almost effortless binding. This was the easy part—the comfort, love, and passion, expressive and exploratory, serious and playful. But there were limits to the heights of what they could reach. With a small nip of his nether lip, still sensitive, he finally came out of their love stupor to find themselves tightly entwined, one of Juliette’s legs wound tightly around his waist. Juliette breathed hard below him, in time with his own heavy breaths. Seconds lengthened.

Something heavy settled in the air, the earnestness of desire, dreamlike and surreal. She sat up slowly, and he let her, reluctant, curious as to what she’d do. She untied the loose ribbon from her hair, long blonde strands falling over her shoulders, the sheen of her valley shining like a beacon. She let the shoulder straps of her dress fall, but she had reached the extent of her daring; her arms rose to cover her chest. (How deferment can fan the flame, better than seduction!) Dry-mouthed, he tugged his black undershirt over his head with numb fingers. With the promise of Juliette near, it was hard to think of anything else. To think, period.

Flush against each other, flesh on flesh, lips on lips. He could feel her, every curve of her, the silk material of her dress gathering at her hips. She felt right beneath his coaxing palms, soft and full and lovely. Her hands exploring the expanse of his chest was driving him mad with longing. He took one of those hands and led it farther down, down…

A soft moan of surprise against his lips, but he kept her palm against him, murmuring her name. Soon she was pressing more firmly against him to growing pressure. Unable to bear it, he broke off and moved his kiss along the length of her neck, her swell. The keen she emitted made all of him rise in anticipation.

“Romeo…”

The name spoken aloud snapped him out of his love haze to more practical matters. They worked together, him clumsily and Juliette impatient, at shedding their clothes, trousers, dress. When he returned to her arms, moving along with her, deeper into her more sensitive flesh, she stiffened. When he looked over her bowed head, she had stilled. “Juliette?”

“I’m fine.” But her eyes were downcast. She raised her eyes at him in that devastating way of hers that stole his breath. “I love you. But…I’m not sure how without…disappointing you.”

As if she ever could. By now their kisses formed a dialogue of hope and reassurance. Still entwined, they moved up the bed, slipping beneath the covers, caressing each other. In his arms Juliette’s reticence melted away and so did his restraint.

* * *

  
The night, as it passed, lightened with the scent of morning. Voices, calls, orders faded in and out into the distance. Candles at their ebb, they laid together in the languid air, Romeo awake but with eyes closed, arms over her shoulders, while Juliette curled up beside him, half dozing. The luminous glow radiating from their skin made the dim candlelight appear even weaker by comparison. Juliette stirred.

“Romeo?”

“Hmm?”

“I heard the watch return.”

“They didn’t come near the chapel. We’re safe here.” He trailed his fingers over her skin. “Are you worried?”

She shook her head and moved in closer. “I’m with you.”

She sat up, looking anxiously towards the window, fair hair cascading in a curly waterfall over her shoulder; a warmth bathed him, filled him. His girl, like his own sun.

“You’re the loveliest girl I’ve ever seen.” He did not mean just in beauty.

“And others were not as lovely?” In tease.

“None like you.”

He could almost feel her flush. She glanced down, tracing the coverlet pattern. “Surely some must eclipse me. What were they like?”

It was frankly hard to remember any ex with a naked Juliette there, lush and glowing. “They varied.” Witty, clever, fun, sexy, catty, dull, haughty, affected, conventional, sweet. And nothing compared to this lightning strike. “Jealous, my love? You don’t strike me as a girl who’d fish for compliments.”

“You’d make a fishmonger out of me?”

“Why not? You’ve already fished me out.”

They wrestled for a bit, playfully, amorously. But then there was heard more calls outside; the reality of their situation seeped in, sobered them. Juliette laid back down, curled like a question mark.

“I wish we could stay in this room forever,” she said, sighing. “Just us two.”

“We’re husband and wife now. No one can part us.”

“They could still try for an annulment. If not on consummation, then some matter else.”

“Let them,” he said, kissing her. “But they won’t succeed. We have the law on our side.”

She tightened her grasp on him. “Stay.”

“I’m here. Always.”

The next thing they knew, morning light streamed through the window. A knocking on the door. Romeo woke first, Juliette stirring beside him. The Friar’s voice could be heard, muffled.

“Romeo? Juliette? It’s time.”

“We’re coming, Friar,” he called. He looked at Juliette, who had rolled over to face him, wide awake. They exchanged silent, pregnant looks and held each other very, very tightly. Just in case.


	7. The Price

Early morning, slightly overcast but light; the sky had a fresh look to it. The Friar, flanked by impassive guards, led them out of the chapel and down the road, the lovers holding hands a little behind. They were not altogether surprised by a small, gathering crowd who had heard, watching them pass, gaping and murmuring. There were more than some stony faces in the crowd. Juliette stiffened, almost ramrod straight while Romeo tried for an unconcerned air. They tried to ignore the words of the crowd.

_Montague._

_Capulet._

_Traitor._

_Slut._

_Bastard._

_Disgrace._

The capitol building loomed ahead, the Escaluses’ porcelain palace. The Friar hesitated before saying, “I think it’s best I enter first. Wait here.”

So the Friar entered, but the guards remained behind. That was when the lovers realized the guards were not here for the Friar. They looked on impassively as the lovers turned towards each other in a half embracing.

“The Friar is in trouble just for harboring us,” she said, anxious. “What if they’ll arrest you?”

 _“_ I doubt it,” said Romeo, glancing at the yawning guards.

 _“_ If they do, they’ll have to take me, too,” said Juliette fiercely. “I cannot be without you.”

“Juliette…”

As they embraced, the double doors opened, and the Friar arrived, a little pale. It did not ease their worries.

 _“_ Come,” he said. “It’s time.”

Inside the vast antechamber, the Prince in gold at his throne, the two houses gathered on opposite sides. Capulet paced restlessly while Lady Capulet looked made of stone; the air between husband and wife crackled with tension. Lady Montague, arm in arm with Balthazar, almost leaning on him, looked as if she had aged ten years. They all froze when they saw the two come in together. The Prince, conversing in low tones with an advisor, broke off his discourse and slowly stood.

“Romeo!” cried his mother.

 _“_ Juliette!” her parents cried. Lord Capulet outstretched his hand out to her, as if the gesture would zap her to him.

Loath to let each other go, they gazed at each other, hesitant, unsure. But their families needed to be appeased, the noise in the hall growing louder. Juliette was swallowed by her father’s tight embrace, her mother scrutinizing her face for any hurt. Romeo allowed his mother to hold him, though he drew a line at kisses. Across the hall, they gazed longingly at each other. Capulet followed his daughter’s stare. If looks could kill, Romeo would have been dead in a heartbeat.

“It appears, my lord of Capulet, Friar Lawrence has spoken true,” said the Prince, who had looked on the scene with canny eye. “Your daughter was not kidnapped after all.”

 _“_ Be that as it may, the Montague has trespassed on my property and absconded with my daughter,” said Lord Capulet evenly without letting go of Juliette. “I still demand justice, Prince.”

“My prince, I beg for mercy.” Lady Montague came forward, kneeling. “My son is young; let his mistakes be viewed in a lenient light.”

“He has seduced my daughter and stolen her virtue,” said Capulet coldly. “Hardly light follies.”

“My son has behaved badly, true,” retorted the madam in the exact same tone, straightening, “but without your daughter’s own wanton behavior, he would not have been able to go so far. It takes two, my lord. Unless you’d dare call my son a criminal.”

“How dare you.” Lady Capulet’s voice was low, seething, and carried easily. “Blame my daughter for your son’s actions, whom all of Verona knows a libertine! This is pure seduction, and he must pay.”

“Enough.” The Prince’s tone alone was enough to stop the argument. He turned to Capulet. “My lord, how old is your daughter?”

“Sixteen,” he finally said curtly. “Seventeen this Lammas Eve.”

“Then she is of age to consent and to marry,” said the Prince evenly. “So is Romeo. They have a right to this under the law.”

He held up a hand to stop the beginning din. “However! The law also requires the permission of both parents for those under twenty-one, which these two did not obtain. On the basis of that alone, I could declare the marriage null.”

“No!”

The cry was Juliette’s, who managed to break free from her father’s embrace. She stood in the no-man’s land alone. She trembled with the effort to stand, to speak for herself.

“Prince,” she said. “When I was a maid, my duty and obedience was to my father. But now that love and duty belongs to him I married.” She looked at Romeo, whose face, to her, resembled a second sun. “He is my friend, my husband, my love. I chose him of my own free will. He hasn’t harmed or wronged me in any way, so he mustn’t pay for a crime that does not exist. In peace’s name, if nothing else, Prince—let us love.”

Unheedful of the shocked, murmuring audience, Romeo broke from his side to take Juliette in his arms, to a large din that made even the stoic guards stir. The two lovers ignored them all and looked only at each other. And the Prince.

* * *

  
Well. He had known the bubble would burst eventually. He just didn’t count that it’d be these two children who would do it.

He had heard a précis of their whirlwind affair from the Friar, whom he quickly judged as reliable. The confessor, keen on a reconciliation of the two families, the end of a long and destructive feud, had agreed to marry them clandestinely. It was a stupid, reckless, dangerous move. He had to approve.

Granted, there was some good to be said about the feud, achieved by it, even. With the Montagues and Capulets forever squabbling, he had been able to retain his own power for his house all the more. They were powerful families, after all, and should they one day unite, they could form a front against him. And now that once-unlikely possibility could yet be realized.

If their parents accepted their marriage as legitimate, the houses would be in official alliance with each other. He could put a stop to that.

But. But.

The feud was more trouble than what it was worth. This internecine quarrel had taken the lives of other notable citizens as collateral, damaged property, caused the rates of real estate to plummet in places where the feud was particularly intense. Powerful factions, having lost much capital due to the fighting, leaned on him to make all right. That would not do. He would meet any challenge that would come his way if need be. His kinsman Paris would eventually recover from his disappointment. The girl was indeed very lovely, but without her virtue, and clearly smitten with another, her worth was much diminished. It would not do to marry the honey-now-wife of Mercutio’s gigolo comrade. Capulet would have to be compensated for the loss of his daughter’s virginity, as was right, but he could not punish Eleanora’s son without consequence.

And so. His decision.

“As we are your fair and lenient prince,” he said aloud, “we have two choices for you. We may dissolve this marriage. Return things as they were. My lord of Capulet shall receive compensation for the loss of his daughter’s virtue as addition to her dowry, which our good madam here will pay. Apart from that, there will be no further penalty.”

He paused. The chamber was dead silent, hanging on his every word.

“Or. We can choose another path.”

He turned to the heads. “Montague. Capulet. You have the choice, a chance for change. Leave aside your hate and consider this an opportunity, heaven-sent. Accept the match, and reconcile. That done, with sufficient assurance that all violence thereafter shall end, we’ll lift our decree. Think of it. Reflect well on your loves, and on your hates, and the price you’ll pay for both. See which is stronger.”

So came recess, the crowd heading out, talking amongst themselves. The guards, however, did not move. Lord and Lady Capulet went off into a low but fervent argument, voices occasionally rising to audible pitch. Curiously, they landed on opposite sides.

“Well?” his lady said in a low voice. “Would you prove a man?”

“What would you wish me to do?” he retorted. “Have our daughter be matched with a nouveau riche upstart? A merchant’s issue? A playwright’s grammar school-educated brat?”

“Better an honest merchant than a Montague! I can’t believe that you of all people would consider this!”

“Bella, listen to me. As of this moment, our daughter has been compromised beyond repair. Her reputation is shot, it’s done. A bankrupt lord is the best she can hope for, and even then, it’s a fantasy. And...” He lowered his voice. “If by any chance she finds herself with child—”

“Sebastian!”

“—Then we really have no choice in the matter. She must be settled, either to _him_ or some other.”

“This is some adolescent fling,” she said fiercely. “Pure puppy love. This boy will not do right by Juliette in the long run, and you know it. Will you deny this? Or will you dare claim that you trust him, accept him as your son?”

“Bella, I detest this as much as you, I detest _him_ far greater than anyone. But we mustn’t rush this, we must think first.”

Meanwhile, a grave Lady Montague gazed at the lovers, deep in thought.

“You can’t mean to reject the Prince’s offer,” said Balthazar by her side, nervously. “The Capulets won’t have it.”

“My son is ruled by his passions, always has been,” she said tightly, almost to herself. “He is too young, too reckless. I had always feared something like this would happen, that some…girl would come and wrap him around his finger. But I thought even he would’ve known better than—this.”

“If you refuse this match, ruled by the animal spirits as it is, you’d have to pay through the nose.”

“True,” she said heavily. She gazed over at her son. “But I have been lenient long enough.”

And she drew herself up to her full height.

“Romeo,” she said, her voice carrying effortlessly. “Come here.”

Her son replied with a firm “No, Mother.”

It was a grave mistake, as all the Montagues saw immediately.

“ _Romeo Montague, come here now_.”

The tone drew even the Capulets out of their discussion, eyes swiveling over to them.

“I’m staying right here,” he said, though his voice shook.

“Juliette, let him go,” her father in a tone that promised consequences if she didn’t.

“Not until you promise you’ll let me be with him,” she called out.

Capulet flushed in greater choler. Shocked titters broke out. Juliette buried her head on her love’s shoulders, unable to look at him. Romeo glanced down. With a pang, he saw the anguish in her eyes.

“Juliette. I’ll be all right. Go to them if you wish,” he said, but she shook her head.

“If they have me, they’ll never let me return to you,” she said, tightening her grip. “I’m staying with you.”

Heart swelling, filling with courage. “I love you.”

“Always.”

And they kissed, their last in a great while. For in the chaos of the din, raised by a high-pitched scream, the sound of the thin slash of steel was swallowed up in the ether, as was the heavy _thud_ of flesh on marble. The world tilted, and went pitch black.


	8. Recovery & Reconcilement

“Careful, love, not so fast.”

“It’s all right. I can handle it.”

“You need your strength. To rest.”

“I’ve been resting, all I ever do is rest. Do you know how exhausting that is?”

Juliette bit back the smile tugging her lips, unsuccessfully. Predictably, Romeo had taken to his bedridden state ill, pun intended. As soon as he came to, he had wanted to leave the hospital, though his wound had barely been cauterized. The injury itself had been shallow; it was the fever that came afterward that made her blood freeze in her veins, that drove her to the Virgin’s altar to pray for his life and safety. She had not been able to stop the tears from flowing when he was found in the clear.

They allowed his mother in first, of course, but Juliette, out of her mind with worry, pushed in to see him, heedless of anything and anyone else. He had looked so sallow-faced, so weak and pale. She was forcefully removed, but not until she saw him open his eyes wearily, his voice hoarse.

“Angel,” he had murmured.

From that moment on, she was never far from his side. The Nurse accompanied her, naturally, with the Mute for company, a small red Capulet island amid an ocean of Montagues, and she was the one who forced her to return home. In the chaos and alarum, no one objected to her presence, at least initially. When Romeo was out of danger, she began paying a bit more attention to the cloud of his kith and kin that came and went. His male friends and kinsmen stared and whispered among themselves about her. A dark-haired Montague girl who came often would frequently burst into tears, inconsolable. She pitied her until the latter started to give her a surly, if watery fish-eye. Juliette, swallowing her jealousy, resigned herself to such encounters. No feud or bitter ex could make her turn her back on Romeo.

His mother, at least, a regal woman with a grave air, had a more speculative air. She would scrutinize her for long moments, yet say nothing. On the third day of the vigil, she finally spoke directly to her.

“You look much like Isabella,” she had said neutrally. “The spit of her.”

Juliette had swallowed dryly. She didn’t like to be reminded of her parents at the moment. An ugly scene ensued when she came home from the first hospital ride, her calmly informing her parents that she would be visiting Romeo—permission or no, with or without chaperone. When her parents, furious, had insisted she come home, even though Romeo was in critical condition, something in her snapped. Her old childhood obedience, her old deference, died. A new, sinewy strength had taken hold of her, born out of steely conviction. She allowed only one chaperone near her—her Nurse.

“You know my mother?” she asked.

“Before,” the lady replied succinctly. By her tone, she knew she didn’t approve. “When she was a Fellini. She was a beauty in her day.”

Tentative conversations such as these, like budding flowers, began cropping up. Though she would have preferred to wait for Romeo to heal in peace, she was glad for these. This was a different type of healing, a necessary kind.

So when a familiar spiky blond began to appear, pale, she rose to approach him. She had seen him before, but had not been sure until she had seen him with Lady Montague.

“Benvolio, is it?” she asked tentatively. “Romeo’s friend?”

He nodded, surprised. Uncomfortable. “Juliette.”

“How is he? Has he asked for me?”

“A better question would be,” he said after a pause, with a ghost of weak amusement, “when has he _not_ asked for you.” But then he sobered, and took a steadying breath. “Look, Juliette, I…”

“If you’re going to talk about the dare, I know all about it,” she said firmly, to his visible shock. “That is all in the past and I forgive you. I don’t blame you or resent you in the slightest.”

“Lucky us,” said an ironic voice. “Careful, ‘Volio, this one’s tough. What manner of girl-beast did we loose upon poor Romeo?”

So did Romeo’s other friend approach, still bandaged up to the arm. He was discharged much sooner, his wounds merely superficial, but he still held his arm rather stiffer than he should have.

“Mercutio. You’re looking better.”

“Still hanging on in this world. Thanks for asking, Buttercup.”

“Mercutio, _no_ ,” said Benvolio, strained.

“What? It’s a compliment.”

Juliette was not offended. On the contrary. “I want to thank you, Mercutio. I didn’t get a chance to before…all of this happened.”

“I tried to help,” he replied, looking slightly uncomfortable for the first time. “Just acted out of instinct.”

“Your instincts were born of a good place, then.

Romeo spoke to me of you two.” During their night, he had briefly told the story of the dare.

The two exchanged half-amused, half-fearful glances.

“Really?” Mercutio asked, wary. “What did he say?”

(“Two of the craziest bastards I ever had the misfortune to be friends with,” he had said tartly, and she had laughed.)

“He holds you in very high esteem,” she said finally.

“He told you were pricks, didn’t he?” Mercutio asked knowingly.

“He did,” she admitted, and their twin laughter drew all eyes to them.

The intricacies of male bonhomie aside, all beyond her, she liked his friends well, Benvolio perhaps the best of the two. Sometimes she heard them with Romeo, sometimes in jokey camaraderie, sometimes in more earnest tones. She suspected she was the subject of conversation in somber moments.

So when she saw him, she looked towards these encouraging signs—her encounters with his friends, his mother, about her parents continuing to allow her to see him. Romeo, listening and playing with their linked hands, was mostly silent.

“Juliette,” he said finally. “I’ve been thinking. I think you should talk with Tybalt.”

Not this again. “Not you too. I get enough from the Nurse as it is.”

“You can’t leave things as they are.”

“Why not? I’m still angry at him. He deserves a bit of distance.”

He gazed at her drawn face, her trembling upper lip and stiff form. “You miss him. He’s your cousin.”

Why did he choose now, of all times, to be perceptive? “He tried to…” She could not even finish the thought. “No, I can’t. He would have killed me too, I’m so tied to you. And yet you want me to forgive him?”

“No one knows whether it was his or Mercutio’s blade that injured me. Everything happened so quickly. He just wanted to separate us, I think.”

“And now no one will.” She grasped his hand. “I swear it.”

Romeo lifted their locked hands to her cheek, his thumb pressed against her skin. “I don’t want you to cut him from your life. I knew when I went with you, I’d get Tybalt and your family too. I don’t care what he thinks of me, I only care for your happiness. If it means Tybalt—well, fine.”

Emotions whirled inside her, each one more contradictory than the last. At last, hardly refraining from throwing herself at him, she hugged his torso briefly, but warmly. “What did I do to deserve you?”

“A cruel mischief you did in a past life, and you’re paying for it now.”

“Oh, stop.” She finally sighed. “I might see him. I’m still so furious with him, I might just have him here with you. But I can’t leave things as they are.”

“Thanks, love.”

“As if _I’m_ doing you a favor.” She laughed, throatily. She sighed. “I wish you were discharged already. I wish I could stay.”

“I can make some room right here.”

“Romeo!”

“Just for a moment or two.”

“After you’re discharged, we’ll be together properly.”

“After I’m discharged, you’ll be the one in bed for a long while.”

Now she knew he was getting better. “Don’t promise such things if you can’t keep them.”

“What if I can?”

She leaned forward. “I’ll make sure to keep you to your promise, then.”

And with a brief, lingering kiss, she took her leave, though sighing after the initial blush wore off. Her love was right. She would have to deal with Tybalt sometime, if just to clear the air. Perhaps he had remorse, and could be prompted towards reconciliation. Either way, she had to try.

* * *

  
Alone, he exhaled, but more cheerful than he had been in awhile. Juliette’s visits always raised his spirits just by her presence alone, but also made him restless. It’d be two days more until he was declared fit, and even then, when he would see Juliette again after this was in question. It scared him, the possibility. It made even the wait bearable, and he usually hated waiting. Thanks to Tybalt, he lived in a state of limbo.

He had not been as generous to Tybalt, of course, in those first hours of consciousness, out of immediate danger. In fact, he was frankly pissed, rightfully so, stuck in bed and longing for Juliette, unable to see her or get out. He had stood up to his mother, to the doctor and nurses, for her right to be there for him. The obvious benefits of having a legal spouse, though it was clear that no one expected _that_ to last. His mother’s mouth thinned into a line every time he brought it up.

“If your father were alive to hear you say this…”

“He’d be glad for Juliette,” he had interrupted. “For keeping me safe.”

For she had reacted the quickest, her cry the first, at his being felled. He did not remember that, of course, just the hot flash, the shock of the knife in his flesh. But he remembered his mother’s sobs, and Juliette’s pale face over him during his morphine-addled state, like his own guardian angel.

Eventually, alone for long periods of time, seeing Juliette more or less regularly, his anger and frustration ebbed. He was not one for grudges, anyway, and though he could have said once that he would have preferred he and Tybalt never see each other in their lives, now he felt more pity. He had been woefully slow to realize Tybalt’s feelings went beyond mere family for Juliette, something Mercutio had always sneeringly implied, but one he never paid attention to. His fault; he should have recognized it almost immediately, the bitterness of a jealous rival. But in a real way, he could not fault him. Juliette inspired strong feelings all around. He had no idea how to untie this lover’s knot—but he could try, for Juliette’s sake, to sue for peace.

At least his friends had come round. The near-death experience had sobered them all, and for some time it made things very awkward. He personally hated it, wishing for their normal repartee. So he appreciated Mercutio’s eventual return to form all the more.

“Your girl is something else,” he had announced first thing on one of the visits. “A tempest in pink. She has drawn poor Benvolio into her spell.”

Benvolio shrugged sheepishly, muttered something about charm and sweetness.

“I take it you approve?” He seriously wasn’t sure. Mercutio’s default drama queen tone had an ambivalent ring at times.

“Approve?” He snorted. “You two were made for each other, mad as you are. Like to like. Let Jove or whoever take care of it, I’ll none.”

Still, it was no longer enough to have Juliette’s love and his friends’ support. Now that the world knew, they needed to acknowledge their relationship. He would not be content having to sneak around anymore, stealing clandestine moments with Juliette. He wanted to be free from hiding, able to love Juliette freely, be with her as completely as he longed to be…

And of course, since Fate adored to see him suffer as her personal fool, his pleasant thoughts on Juliette were interrupted by the door opening.

“Back already?” he asked before he froze.

“I see you’ve already seen my daughter,” said Lord Capulet, voice neutral, face less so, closing the door firmly behind him.

Oh, fuck.

They stared at each other for several moments, Capulet’s expression impassive and Romeo struggling to keep his best I-am-a-well-governed-youth-who-was-definitely-not-fantasizing-about-having-sex-with-your-daughter-just-now expression on. Maybe it was a goodwill visit. Maybe Capulet just wanted a cordial conversation instead of adding assault to injury by, er, literally adding assault to injury.

“You remind me of myself when I was your age,” said Capulet (fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ) after a pause, voice very cool. “I was a catch too, once upon a time. I took advantage, naturally, as youth do. Fooled around where I wasn’t supposed to.” He shook his head, a dark, personal comment to himself. “Never again.”

After that cheery opening, he sat down on Juliette’s vacated chair, twining his fingers together in a businesslike gesture. He looked very different than Juliette, dark in hue and slender, but something about his air, his manner struck him as cruelly familiar.

“I’ve come for Juliette, naturally, but I wished to speak with you as well. We need, in short, to talk.”

“My lord,” he began, struggling for the right, respectful tone, “I know you must think the worst of me—”

“What, think the worst of the youth who disturbed my ball, fought with my nephew, trespassed on my private property, seduced my daughter, stole her away in front of my very eyes, married and bedded her on no greater authority than an intrepid friar and a clandestine troth plight, and appeared with her the next morning in front of the whole assembly, flaunting his conquest?”

Well, when you put it that way, he thought, ears ringing. Where’s a black hole when you need one?

“And saved her life at the possible expense of his own,” said Capulet quietly. “And stood by her, even felled, to make sure she was well.”

Oh.

It was a token of how outrageous this whole situation was that the count took out and lit a cigarette. Romeo, experiencing withdrawal symptoms, tried to suppress his shudder.

“As it stands,” he said calmly. “I hold a higher opinion of worms than I do of you.” Ouch. “But I can’t deny what I saw. Your first instinct was not to save yourself, but to push Juliette out of danger. Even though Tybalt would’ve turned the knife on himself before ever harming her…even though he aimed for you, you still protected her. And I’m—grateful for that. So thank you.”

“I would’ve done it again,” he said truthfully, though disconcerted; he had not expected this. He shook his head, clearing it. “I would have given it, mine for hers.”

Capulet’s dark eyes bore into him, as if attempting to see past his words, his outward demeanor, into his heart of hearts. “You are married to her. You have sworn sacred vows. Do you understand what that means?”

“Yes,” he said firmly. “It means she and I are one. In the eyes of God. I love her.”

His nostrils flared a little, but otherwise he did not reply. Finally he sighed, rubbing his temples, his eyes.

“I love my daughter,” he said at last. “I want only what is best for her. You are not it, obviously.” Second ouch. “But I’m a practical man, and I can see the writing on the wall. Juliette will be seventeen in less than a week’s time, and with these…events, her chances of making a good match are gone completely. She has set her maid’s heart on you, and loves you with all the passion of her years. I have no illusions, of course. But I’m done resisting. So. If Eleanora is willing…”

This could not be possible, he was dreaming. “My lord?”

Capulet rose, with an agitated air. “Consider it, won’t you, before I change my mind. Send my regards to your mother, and my offer to negotiate. I won’t make promises, and you should expect none. We’ll see if this bears any fruit.”

And he shot him a pointed look so familiar that his heart ached a little inside. He paused at the door.

“Good luck on your recovery,” he said, if stiffly.

When he left, Romeo’s head was spinning. Did that really just happened, or was this just some morphine-addled hallucination? Because it sounded, for a moment there, like Capulet was actually considering…accepting…

And if that was true, then Juliette—!

* * *

Walking through the streets with the Nurse and the Mute, Juliette was only half paying attention to the Nurse’s usual prattle until her ear caught Tybalt’s name in a lacuna.

“He was always a courteous gentleman,” she said gently. “As good and noble a man as one could wish. He loves you very much, sweet. It’s killing him to see you reject him.”

“I did not reject him,” she said automatically, though without conviction. She sighed heavily. “Give me leave, then, Nurse.”

So when they returned home, Juliette headed upstairs to the room of the upper balcony. As she thought, Tybalt was there, a dark figure against the dimming purple twilight, looking down at the ground as if he wanted to meet it violently. He turned around at her approach and she nearly flinched in pity. He looked awful. She felt awful.

“Tybalt. We must talk.”

He turned away from her without a word. She was shocked. Never in her life had he done that to her. Ever.

“Tybalt, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” He whipped around, fierce. “I could have killed you that day and you ask me what’s wrong?”

“No, you couldn’t have killed me,” she said firmly, squaring her shoulders. “You would never have done that. Besides, Romeo would have defended me, as he did. Perhaps killed you for it.”

“And I would have gladly let him,” he said bitterly. “Sometimes I wish he or Mercutio had.”

“Stop it. Don’t say such things. What’s done is done. There’s no point in wondering what could have been.”

“Why are you here?” he asked after a pause. “You hate me.”

Oh, Tybalt. “I could never hate you. I was furious, yes, for the longest, but I never hated you. Even Romeo doesn’t hate you.”

“Did _he_ tell you that? If so, he lied.”

“Tybalt!”

“It’s true.”

She struggled to form a response to this. “If that’s the case, then why was he the one who encouraged me to reconcile with you? Explain that.”

“Hell if I know. But his intentions I doubt.”

Her heart sank like a stone. She had hoped this trial would have shocked some sense, some common feeling in her cousin. Apparently not. “You can’t tell me that after what happened, you still hate him. I can’t accept that.”

“Of course I hate him,” he said in a very low voice. “I hate that you feared for his safety more than mine. I hate that you love him and choose to be with him against all reason and sense. I hate that had you been forced to choose which of us die, you would pick me. But above all, I hate how he protected you, I hate how he succeeded in doing what I could not do. I hate that if it weren’t for him, you may have been the one on the gurney, not him.”

He ducked his head away. Welling up inside her, a river of emotion, tears leaked out. She wiped them away, and embraced him. He said nothing for a long while, nor responded to her embrace in any way. After a few moments, he spoke.

“I did not intend to kill him,” he said quietly. “I just wanted to separate him from you. I couldn’t stand him near you. But then that Mercutio came at me and I—reacted. I had to.”

They stood like that for a long while.

“Will you accept us, Tybalt?” she asked, pleading. “If my parents finally come around? Please. I need your support.”

His arm tightened about her. He lasted too long in answering. “No matter what, Juliette, I’m your cousin. I’ll always be there for you. That, I promise you, will never change.”

And without another word he disentangled himself from her and turned, leaving a chill at his wake, in her heart.


	9. Traditional Nicety

One last bandage change, and it was done. Eleanora breathed a sigh of relief, feeling the weight of two weeks lighten in her chest.

She watched as he reunited with his cousins outside the hospital, his friends, embracing them. She even smiled a little when Rose held him a little too long than strictly proper. If she could forget the rest, this scene would be nothing different, nothing that suggested anything had changed. An ordinary incident, recovery, and welcome. But alas, that could not be.

Juliette then arrived, luminous in a white summer frock that made her look much older than her years, with her family in tow along with some trusted servants. As soon as he saw her, Romeo went to her. They embraced warmly, but demurely, as if aware of their audience and not wanting to push their luck. The Montagues stirred, uneasy and unsure. The Capulets, Lord and Lady Capulet especially, were coolly still, and at least outwardly composed.

Eleanora stood from the bench and approached the lord and lady. As always, she had to do things herself, make the first move.

“Sebastian, Isabella,” she greeted. “Well met.”

“Good madam,” said Sebastian curtly, and beside him Isabella nodded.

Not the warmest of exchanges, but it was a start. She motioned with her head. “Shall we, then?”

The Capulets nodded. They turned and the Montagues followed suit.

* * *

  
Eleanora had had a rough life, rougher than it ordinarily would be, given her status. Her father had married her off at sixteen to a man a dozen years her senior, who died of the plague. Her next marriage to Vittorino Montague had been a love match, a passionate, tumultuous one at that. He had been handsome, charming, lively, and the very worst of husbands. When he died, she thought something in her had died as well, and she had wept in both grief and relief. Their only son, the inheritor of his looks and her temperament, she loved beyond all measure. As for the Capulets, she never forgave them for their part in ending his life. At least her husband got to take that Tomasso Capulet along with him.

So when it was found that Romeo had seduced Capulet’s daughter, her heart had stopped momentarily in her chest. Nothing ever changed, the same old vicious cycle. But she knew her son. Girl-crazy though he was, he lacked his father’s callousness. He was not the rebellious type, though those friends of his often led him astray. It must have been the Capulet girl, who got to him somehow. She suspected the girl had taken a leaf out of her mother’s book. Isabella was renowned for her affairs; the daughter had seemed of that same vine.

Well, she was proven wrong in that, she could admit it. She was tough—she had to be, to survive in this mad town, just a widow and her son with a raging feud—and so she had to trust in herself above all, her perceptions. This Juliette was indeed lovely, though it surprised her to find her so young, with a sweet disposition and, she soon showed, a formidable strength of will. She understood, albeit grudgingly, why her son had gone over the moon for her, betrayed his kin for her.

But above all these, the fact that she loved him mattered most. One would have to be blind not to see it, and Eleanora had no need for spectacles yet. Her devotion to her son through this ordeal had touched her beyond words. It was for this, and only this, that she was bothering to meet Sebastian and Isabella for the first time in decades, at the Prince’s estate, recognized neutral territory for both sides.

They settled down in a plush room with complimentary wine, courtesy of the Prince, keen on reconciliation. Well, Eleanora thought darkly, settling on the chair with difficulty, setting aside her cane, we’ll see how that goes.

“Before we begin, my lord,” she said, “I wish to recognize your daughter’s help in my son’s recovery. Her support has been invaluable, her presence a great boon to my son.”

“I thank you for your kind words, madam,” he said after a pause, glancing at his wife, who nodded stiffly. “And, for all it’s worth…I am grateful for your son’s actions, protecting our daughter.”

With these frank admissions, some of the tension eased. Eleanora exhaled, but still grim. There was still issues to hammer over, details to nitpick. A plan to work out. If it could work out.

* * *

The doctors had advised Romeo to take it easy the first few days, but as he was sick of resting, Juliette gave him some added enticement. They settled on the hall sofa, his head cozily nestled on her lap. Servants that passed by would look at them curiously, grimly, askance, and scandalized. They ignored them all.

“You look lovely in that dress, by the way,” he commented.

“I wore it for you. I thought you might like it.”

“I do. You look gorgeous. Sexy.”

“Now I know you’ve recovered. Behave. We’re in the Prince’s estate.”

“I’m sure the servants here have seen worse. We don’t have to wait here, you know. We can occupy ourselves somewhere else.”

“We should wait. Besides, I can’t push you too much. I could hurt you.”

“You could never hurt me,” he said, sweet, and her heart melted.

They kissed, at an awkward cross angle sideways. Romeo let his head fall back on her lap, sighing.

“What if they decide to separate us?” he asked.

“They won’t,” she said, swallowing dryly. “They’d kill us if they do.”

“If need be,” he said quietly, taking her hand, “we can leave town. Elope.”

“That’s an option,” she murmured.

But neither of them liked the idea, and hoped it wouldn’t come to that. They lapsed into comfortable silence a moment, her stroking Romeo’s hair, him closing his eyes under her caress.

“You look happy, love.”

He opened his eyes to look up at her. “I am. You look happy, too.”

“I am.” She cocked her head. “Is it wrong to be, despite everything?”

He wove his hand over her cheek, through her hair. “No, it isn’t.”

By some means their positions reversed, with Juliette ending up on his lap.

“Discreetly, love.”

“Why? We’re married.”

“My father could come in here and see us.”

The reminder worked. Romeo disentangled himself from her, grimacing.

“Could we not talk about your father, love? It’s a killer.”

“Why not?”

“He hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you. It’s just hard on him, that’s all. He lost his only daughter in less than two days, without his knowledge or consent.”

“Exactly. Ergo, he hates me.”

She smiled reluctantly. “He just needs time to adjust. He’ll come round eventually. And if he does, so will Mother.”

They snuggled together, his arm around her, falling into comfortable, but pregnant silence.

“Romeo?”

“Hmm?”

“Who is Rose?”

She worried when he stiffened slightly beside her. “An ex, love. Why?”

“I met her, sort of. She was distraught to see you hurt.”

He sighed. He remembered the look on her face as they passed by.

“I felt the same,” she said, low. “I thought you could die. I thought I would die.”

His arm tightened about her. “That’s all over. I’m here.”

She clung closer to him. “I know.”

They were interrupted by footsteps and, scrambling up, looked at their parents, who arrived jointly. Their faces were carefully impassive.

“Romeo, come, we’re leaving,” said Lady Montague curtly.

“Juliette, come away,” said Lady Capulet stiffly.

Was this their final moment together? They exchanged alarmed, unsure glances. They embraced, and for a moment, the words _I love you_ burned in the charged air between them. They turned to their parents.

“Will we be together or no?” she asked.

The parents in turn exchanged weary, almost exasperated glances.

“You will certainly not,” said Capulet curtly. “Until the wedding, you will observe every traditional nicety and practice continence. It’s time to leave behind this—incident once and for all.”


	10. End Ill

“Come on. Say it.”

“Screw you, Mercutio.”

“See, you’re grinning. Admit it. You appreciated our dare.”

“It was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”

“And?” Benvolio prompted.

“And I’m eternally grateful to you two for goading me into taking it up. Happy now?”

They laughed and so did he. In truth, he was too happy to care. Besides, his two friends were right. Without that silly dare, how would he have met Juliette? Would he had even met her in the first place? Strange thing to consider. He couldn’t imagine it any other way.

“It still caused more trouble than what is worth. I could have lost Juliette. Lost my life.”

“True, but something even worse happened,” said Mercutio solemnly. Suspiciously so. “You got married.”

“Leg-shackled,” emphasized Benvolio.

“Imprisoned.”

“Taken.”

“Whipped, tamed.”

He gazed across the crowded room, where Juliette could be seen, dancing with her cousins, a dazzling figure in shimmering white, the most beautiful of them all. If to be with her was prison, he never wanted to be free. 

He didn’t realize he had said this aloud until they gaped at him. “What?”

“You really have lost it,” said Mercutio, shaking his head, almost in wonder. “I thought you had just decided to risk it all to get laid, but no. You really like this chick.”

“Considering he just got married to her, twice,” said Benvolio dryly as Romeo choked on air, “I think it’s safe to say he does, ‘Cutio.”

“Don’t remind me,” he said, grimacing. “The mad things men do! Will I never see a bachelor of three score ever again?”

As Benvolio laughed, Romeo shook his coiffured head, brushed away the lint of of his crisp midnight blue wedding suit. He hadn’t felt very comfortable in it, too posh for his preferred casual style, but he had to admit, he did look good in it. Besides, it was all worth it for the glowing look on Juliette’s beautifully made-up face as she walked down the aisle.

It still seemed a dream, though an immensely frustrating one for a whole month an a half. Capulet—Sebastian now, oh God—had been serious in making sure he and Juliette observed niceties before the wedding, as if he were courting her for the first time. The Nurse was lenient, understanding, when she chaperoned. But mostly it was Tybalt, silent in the background, glaring or otherwise broodingly intense. It was off-putting, to say the least. Even Juliette got impatient.

“If only we could be alone,” she sighed. “At least for a moment or two. But this is the price to pay.”

And then there was the chaos of the wedding preparations. Romeo had never preferred the Friar’s quick I-do and their subsequent bedding so badly before. Lady Capulet and his mother wrangled over every detail, every palate, every color scheme. He suspected, though, that they enjoyed the contention, wrangling, arguing, complaining about each other. Juliette was far more patient, and had more of an eye for fashion, but even she in the end brushed it off, leaving the bulk of the preparations to her mother and nurse.

“I much preferred it when you kidnapped me,” she said grumpily after a particularly harrowing dress session, and he, charmed by her expression, couldn’t resist kissing her. Just then, Tybalt walked in, their constant shadow. His countenance darkened like an oncoming storm. He turned away without another word.

That was another thing. Even kissing Juliette turned out to be grounds for battle, a source of quiet but real contention. He almost never did it, of course, at dinners with the Capulets or in front of Tybalt if he could help it. He let Juliette initiate instead, and she began doing it too, quick, casual nips in plain defiance. Every time she did it was like a mini explosion; her family would stiffen.

“They’ll just have to get used to it,” she said simply when he raised up the issue. “To us.”

His heart melted. God, he loved her. She was the only reason why he tolerated this artificial, nonsensical separation, put up with Tybalt and a wary Lord Capulet, agreed to the ridiculous constraint to abstain. Not that he and Juliette didn’t bend the rules when they could. The Nurse was the most sympathetic, though out of practicality than anything else.

“Her childhood has ended,” she said once, sighing heavily, looking in the distance. “No use pretending otherwise. She knows the ways of men now.”

So she let them roam, disappear for some moments at a time on promenades. Demure and well-bred as she was, Juliette was certainly not the prudish type, at least with him. Their feverish exercises only made him miss her even more, knowing how good she felt in his arms, and how much better their lovemaking would be now. He knew she felt the same too.

Days passed. The day of drawing closer, the two families grew used to the two of them together, a settled conclusion; they no longer bat an eyelash at their amorous antics, as Juliette wisely predicted. The stif, outright resistance of their kin faded away to teasing and some off-color jokes about purple children. Benvolio and Mercutio still called him mad, but for a different reason other than his marrying a Capulet—his marrying at all, for starters.

“Traitor,” bemoaned Mercutio, falling and rolling theatrically on his chamber floor at their bachelor party, Benvolio shaking his head solemnly. “Forswearer. Perjurer of sacred vows.”

“We were _six_ , Mercutio.”

“‘Bros before hos’ is not of an age, Romeo, it’s for _all_ time!”

To which Romeo responded by going off to be with Juliette at her balcony that night.

Not that all they did was sex-related. It felt good just to be with her, quiet, alone, with no chatty Nurse, death-glare Tybalt, or chilly father and neurotic mother hovering about. Juliette was at her most tender with him, and her most vulnerable. They exchanged murmured confidences. Accidents did happen, though, as when they made love once, in the orchard.

It hadn’t at all been planned or expected, but it had seemed right, exciting in its very spontaneity. One moment he was admiring Juliette’s skin in the moonlight and the next they were tumbling, gasping, himself feeling as if he were about to burst. It had been so long since they’ve been together in such an intimate, visceral way, and the consequence of that contact was pure release. For privacy, they absconded underneath a hedge.

Still, he didn’t push his luck. In front of Capulet, he was, well, if not the perfect gentleman, at least presentable. He even tried to make a concerted effort to quit smoking, although the stress of being with his future father-in-law sometimes drove him to crave that shot of nicotine. Capulet had eased off the hostility, but the way he talked to him sometimes felt like an interrogation than a conversation, a hidden trap beneath surface cordiality. His crime? Loving Juliette, in a nutshell.

“Juliette told me that you two would like to go to Mantua on your honeymoon,” he said once. “Is that true?”

“Yes, my lord. I have family there, connections.”

“Hmm. Well, Mantua is good, quite close by. But there are lepers, aren’t there? Seedy sides of town.”

“There are nice places too,” he said, wincing inwardly at his lame response.

“True,” said Capulet after a moment. “Still, I don’t see why you can’t stay here in Verona. After all, it’s not as if you haven’t enjoyed your honeymoon already. No need to go all out.”

To which he smiled blandly, and thought about Juliette naked for the umpteenth time, his favorite coping mechanism.

But then the day of came, and some light must have switched on. He found himself surrounded by both his Montague kin and future Capulet in-laws alike, in friendly male camaraderie, helping him dress and stealing ties as souvenirs. Benvolio and Mercutio were dressed as well, in identical smokings, although Mercutio being Mercutio, he wore his jacket unbuttoned. The decision to make both of them his best man was a pragmatic decision rather than a sentimental one: For the past few weeks, they had been driving him crazy.

“It's okay, ‘Meo.” Mercutio had slapped a hand on his shoulder. “If you don’t want to break the news to ‘Volio, I’ll do it. But the important thing is, you shouldn’t feel guilty over holding me in higher regard. Everyone will understand. You won’t even have to explain it.”

“Mercutio, I’m right _here_.”

“Oh, hush, Benvolio, can’t you see I’m busy making Romeo see sense?”

And he had sighed, running a hand over his hair, as the onslaught commenced.

“Think about it,” urged Benvolio. “If you pick me, then I can be paired up with the Mute. She’s Juliette’s friend, I’m your friend. It works! Besides, I’m your cousin.”

“But I’m cooler and better looking,” pointed out Mercutio lazily.

“I won’t make you look the fool like Mercutio will.”

“I won’t make you look lame like Benvolio will.”

“I'm cuter!”

“I'm sexier.”

“That’s subjective.”

“So is you being cute. Speaking of which, you’re more than cute. You’re beautiful.”

“Well, if I’m so beautiful, then let me be Romeo's best man.”

“Beautiful does not necessarily suggest best, ‘Volio. In terms of physique and charisma, I have the lion’s share. Therefore, I’m better.”

“Romeo, just choose one. Preferably me. At least I won’t wax poetic about my good looks like Mercutio will. And Juliette likes me more.”

“Not true! Deep down Juliette is fond of me and my bon mots.”

“You annoy her. I’m less of a troll.”

“Bah, I bet she’s used to it.”

They had continued arguing back and forth until Romeo had had enough.

“All right, stop, stop!”

He gave them his best glare. They shut up quickly.

“Forget this. _Both_ of you will be my best man.”

They blinked once. Then twice. Then three times.

“Really?” Benvolio choked out.

Romeo shrugged. “Tradition is meant to be broken anyway. Juliette and I have broken it ten times over. What’s the harm of breaking it a little more?” He looked at them, earnest. “You two are my best friends. My blood brothers. I can never choose between the two of you.”

So it was decided, and although his mother rolled her eyes something awful, it was allowed. The two joined him, then, at the altar, flanking him.

It was the only part of tradition he was allowed to flout, however. The day of the wedding saw Juliette carefully hidden away from him, his entry to her blocked as she was spirited quickly into a room in the church where they gathered. It disappointed him, as he had wanted to see Juliette at least once before it was time, but the wait was worth it. The sight of her, arm in arm with her father, walking over Bach’s Air, bowled him over.

Soft golden curls pooling over a sweetheart neckline, a flute-shaped dress of shimmering ivory crystals, the slightest, softest shade of rose. She looked exquisite, a goddess in the flesh, glowing. When she saw him, eyes connecting, that glow grew stronger, and for a moment he saw himself as she would have seen him—sleekly handsome in his dark midnight smoking and purple cravat. He knew that, if her father hadn’t been beside her, she would’ve run to him, knew it as well as he knew himself.

The ceremony was not long, and they knelt down to face each other for the second time. Though they knew this was for the benefit of their families, it also felt like a recommitment. They kissed to applause, whoops, and whistles.

So now he rested, at the lively reception, and could not keep his eyes off Juliette, who danced with her cloud of cousins as well as individual partners. He had danced with her, two left feet or no, until they were shamed into letting others dance too. He watched other men take their turn with Juliette, some holding her and staring at her longer than necessary, but he was too happy to care. They belonged to each other for life, and that was all that mattered.

“Oh, God.” Mercutio had noticed his look and was shaking his head. “Absolutely sickening. Come, Benvolio. Let us bachelors have our fun. Leave this masochist to his love-muse.”

But they patted him on the shoulders anyway, in congratulations, affection, support. He did too, feeling a warmth inside his chest. Brothers for life, always.

Movement in his peripheral vision, a familiar flash of red, distracted him momentarily. He checked to see if Juliette was all right one more time before quietly rising.

Sure enough, his stalking led him to a porcelain bathroom, a curly blonde head lowered over the sink, shoulders trembling. There were no sobs, only shaky breaths that echoed with the volume of a gunshot. He raised his head a little, red-rimmed eyes widening. He whipped around.

“You!”

He sighed, grim. “Hello, Tybalt.”

Tybalt’s hand went immediately to his side—absent, of course, of a sheath. Not even he had thought of bringing a weapon to a wedding.

“Now that you can’t attack me, can we talk?”

“We have nothing to talk about, Montague. Now stay put.”

But he planted himself firmly at the door, closed, locked it. It was now or never. “No. We talk here and we talk now.”

When Tybalt didn’t say anything, speechless in seething anger, he prompted, “Juliette and I didn’t see you at the ceremony.”

He scoffed derisively. “What? Thought I’d be all peaches and cream at seeing the girl I love marry a despised enemy? Well, you’re right. I’m positively thrilled. But forgive me if I’m not jumping for joy. Bad back, you know.”

He steeled himself. “All right. You hate me. I understand that. I can live with that, even. But facts are facts, Tybalt. We’re kin now. And so I have to ask for your acceptance.”

He stared at him as if he had gone mad. “My _acceptance_?”

“Juliette loves you. She worries about you, constantly. I don’t want to come between you, be the bone of contention between you. She’ll suffer if you leave. And you love her too.”

He didn’t know whether it had been right to say this last part, but Tybalt did not reply. He seemed to consider this, although his silence was too surly to be friendly. He was still breathing heavier than usual. “What do you want, then?”

He leaned back against the wall. “Stay. Work with me. We both love Juliette, and we both want what’s best for her. And what’s best is for you to be a part of the family.”

He turned away almost immediately, with dark countenance. “You are madder than I thought. You’re asking me to watch from the wings while you make a family with her. This is pure sadism.” He hesitated, then turned back to him. “What if I prefer to leave?”

“And abandon her to the likes of me? Somehow I don’t think it your style.”

“Fuck you, Montague. Why don’t you leave me the fuck be? Why do you refuse my right to feel whatever I fucking want to feel towards this—” He gave a sweeping, derisive gesture. “—this farce of a marriage?”

He took a deep breath to summon up his courage. “It isn’t right for you to leave and for Juliette not to understand why. If you refuse to accept us, it’s her right to know why. And if you won’t tell her, then I will.”

One could hear a pin drop in the silence that ensued.

“Was that a threat?” His voice was low and dangerous.

“I am not threatening you,” he said evenly. “I am warning you of what will happen of that is the case.”

Tybalt slowly shook his head. He licked his dry lips, for once uneasy. “No…no, she can’t know. I swore never to tell her.”

“Then it’d be up to me to deliver the news, would it? My poor love. She’d feel guilty for being with me, for causing you pain.”

His eyes flashed. “I always knew you were a snake in the grass.”

“Do you think I like doing this?” he snapped. “I don’t, honestly. But you compel me to fight dirty. And I don’t think I’m asking much.”

“You don’t _think_!” A spark of anger. “That’s the problem, Romeo. You just don’t think.”

But as soon as this ember of anger flared up, it sputtered and died. He turned away, almost defeated, staring unseeingly at the porcelain.

“I swore to myself that I would never let Juliette know I love her,” he said finally. “But I also swore to hate whomever she marries forever.”

A grim declaration. And yet, as time had proved, hate could turn to love. And so he chanced it.

“For Juliette, then,” he said. “Hate me. But don’t leave.”

That did it. His expression hardened in determination. And he grasped Romeo’s hand in a grip that was tighter than what was comfortable.

“You hurt her, I’ll end you,” he said.

Surprised, he found himself responding in kind. Soon they were engaged in a typical macho show for power. No matter. It was a start.

* * *

  
A ballad came on, and finding herself partnerless for a moment, Juliette looked around, but Romeo’s seat was vacant. Strange. She thought she had seen him just now, gazing lovingly on her. She had been tempted to pull him to the dance floor again. True, he wasn’t the most graceful of dancers, but she was willing to teach him, and he seemed up to learning.

Besides. There was something she wanted to say. Something important.

She had wanted to tell him, meet with him if just for a couple of moments, but tradition was tradition: The bride was not to see the groom nor vice versa until the wedding. She was unsure, anyway, what would constitute as the appropriate time to tell him, to tell everyone. She told the Nurse of the possibility, at least, and almost regretted it when the older woman teared up. She patted her hand, embraced her.

“Don’t worry, my sweet. If it comes, it comes. I’ll tell you all there is to know, you mark your old nurse. My girl, how you’ve grown. You’re a woman now.”

She didn’t feel particularly womanly, but in a way, she felt she had indeed matured. The trial of the past week had made her feel more assured, less her callow self. That said, she was almost as nervous as eager, anxious as not. It was so soon—but of course, it was going to happen eventually. What would he say?

Lost in thought, she nearly shrieked when a pair of arms embraced her from behind. She pushed against his chest in mock-anger.

“You tease, don’t scare me like that!”

“Sorry,” said Romeo, grinning unrepentantly. “I couldn’t resist, with you standing there. You look beautiful.”

So her parents, the Nurse, the Mute in wordless acclaim, the servants, her gushing cousins, her cheeky Montague cousins-in-law, and practically everyone have said to her since she appeared in her wedding dress. “Really, I hadn’t noticed.”

He laughed at that. “Touché. But it’s true.”

They slow-danced, arms around each other, and once again she marveled about how happy she was, a bliss only love can bring.

“I saw you with Benvolio and Mercutio earlier,” she commented. “I hope they weren’t too hard on you.”

“They called me a circus poodle.” At the disapproving look on her face, he laughed. “Relax, love. It’s their way of saying they approve.”

“You sure do rib each other a lot.”

“You have no idea.”

She tucked a stray strand of his hair behind his ear, fingers trailing his cheek. He looked a little distant, deep in thought. “Anything wrong?”

“No, nothing.” He smiled. “The opposite, actually.”

And he leaned down for a quick peck, which turned into a longer kiss, as was their wont. But she straightened, bracing herself. Now or never.

“Romeo, there is something I need to tell you.”

He stilled, sobering. “What is it? Something wrong?”

“No, no. The opposite, actually.” They laughed quietly at her echo of his words. She exhaled in a long breath.

“I don’t know for sure—you can never know these things for certain, but…I missed my courses for this month. They were supposed to come the day before yesterday, and I was afraid the blood would soak into my dress—but they didn’t come.”

He frowned, confused. “That doesn’t sound good. Is that normal?”

“No, it’s not,” she said simply.

He got it then, and slowed to a stop. His lips parted. “Juliette…you mean…”

A smile grew, stretching across her face. She nodded.

Dancers gaped, some gasping, at the bride who squealed as her partner swung her about before kissing her passionately. Spontaneous applause burst forth over the music.

“Romeo!”

“You’re amazing, you know that?”

“I take it you approve?” She was laughing.

“Approve? I’m thrilled.” But as soon as he said that, he sobered. “Juliette, this is…this changes things.”

“I know, love.” She grasped his hand. “It’s new for me, too. But we can get through this together.”

As they embraced to bemused lookers-on, Mercutio and Benvolio, from the hors d’oeuvres table, looked on as well. They exchanged significant glances.

“Five lira she just told him she’s with child,” said Benvolio immediately.

“Dammit, ‘Volio,” Mercutio groaned. “That was my guess too.”

“Well, that’s what you get for daring Romeo to woo the chit.”

“If I recall, _you_ were the one who dared him.”

“Yes, but you were the one who brought up Juliette in the first place, which gave _me_ the idea.”

“And now look what has happened.” Mercutio gave a dramatic gesture at the lovers’ direction. “Romeo’s thoroughly screwed, and he is _enjoying_ it. Horrors.”

“Well,” said Benvolio after a pause. “Maybe there is something to be learned from this. Maybe love comes from the oddest places. Maybe love can triumph. Maybe there is such a thing as fate after all, and we’re just its puppets.”

“You’re damn right there’s a lesson to be learned here,” said Mercutio tartly. “And it’s never to make dares involving women. It never ends well.”

Because if anything was clear, as they looked on at their friend and his wife in a tight embrace, it was that this one didn’t end well.


End file.
